LIBRARY 

\)niver*y  o«  California^ 

IRVINE 


M 


A  Xurnpike    Lady 

Beartown,  Vermont,  1768-1796 


BY 
SARAH    N.   CLEGHORN 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

1907 


PS 

3505 
LSQ 

T8 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  September ;  1907 


THE   QUINN    ft    60DEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAH  WAY,    N.    J. 


So 

J.     O.     H.     AND    J.     D.    C. 

WITH  PANSIES  AND  WITH  ROSEMARY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  THE  POLICES  DESCRIBED 

II.  TALL  TALK  AT  THE  SAPHOUSE  .... 

III.  THE  DAY  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON 

IV.  ELIZA'S  ILLNESS — THE  GREEN  SILK  . 

V.    THE  ARRIVAL  OF  THE  LUCYS — ELIZA  GOES  TO 

JAMAICA 57 

VI.     ELIZA  SULKS 74 

VII.     ALPHEUS  AND  MARYETTE — THE  BLACK  SATUR 
DAY go 

VIII.  GATEWAYS  OF  THE  ENCHANTED  COUNTRY         .  108 

IX.  FLAVIA  OBEYS  HER  MOTHER      .        .        .        .118 

X.  HONOURS  AND  EMOLUMENTS        ....  131 

XI.  THE  PROUD  SUMMER  BEGINS      ....  140 

XII.  ADVICE  FROM  MARM  AND  MRS.  DARBY     .        .  151 

XIII.  DRIVING  TO  WESTMINSTER          ....  165 

XIV.  THE  CRADLE  IN  THE  WOODHOUSE  CHAMBER     .  178 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.     ELIZA'S  VISIT 193 

XVI.     THE  PROUD  SUMMER  ENDS     ....  213 

XVII.     THE  LITTLE  INNOCENT     .....  223 

XVIII.     MORNING,  AFTERNOON,  AND  EVENING  AT  THE 

HOUSE  ON  THE  NORTH  TURNPIKE      .        .  239 


A    TURNPIKE    LADY 


A  TURNPIKE   LADY 

CHAPTER   I 
Gbe  polfces  Described 

Alexis,  here  she  walked:  among  these  pines. 

IN  the  amphitheatre  between  Red  and  Bald 
Mountains  (peaks  of  eastern  Vermont)  are 
the  remains  of  the  tollgate  hamlet  of  Beartown, 
which  flourished  there  four  generations  ago. 
From  the  valley  Beartown  looks  no  bigger  than  a 
child's  necklace  of  beans  or  spools,  lost  in  the 
mountain  hollow.  But  this  brief  row  of  log  and 
clapboarded  houses  then  sheltered  large  families 
of  children,  cheerful  huskings,  spellings,  paring 
bees,  and  kitchen  fiddlings;  and  a  long  parade 
walked  on  Sundays  to  the  church,  where  the 
Prayer-Book  was  read  to  a  congregation  of  loyal 
ists  by  the  toothless  Mr.  Greenpiece. 

The  tollgate  was  kept  by  James  Darby,  who, 


The  Polkes  Described 


with  his  brother-in-law  Richard  Polke,  drilled 
and  led  away  the  Beartown  Whig-Biters.  Mr. 
Darby  and  Mr.  Polke  had  married  sisters  of  some 
wealth,  and  their  houses  were  the  most  pretentious 
in  the  town — clapboarded  with  wide  boards,  and 
painted  yellow  and  white.  The  Polkes  had  a  few 
scrawny  poplars  in  front,  which  they  valued  more 
than  all  the  fine  maples  round  their  barn.  Their 
house,  though  it  looked  large  among  its  neigh 
bours,  would  not  have  been  large  enough  for  the 
eleven  children,  if  they  had  all  been  children  at 
once.  But  the  eldest  were  married  and  gone 
away  before  the  youngest  were  born;  and  there 
was  a  great  gulf  in  the  middle  of  the  family, 
where  several  little  boys  and  girls  had  died  in 
quick  succession  of  chin-cough  and  spinal  disease. 
Naomi  and  her  next  sister  Eliza  could  only  re 
member  one  of  these  shadowy  lost  ones — their 
poor  little  brother  David,  whose  head  was  drawn 
sidewise,  and  who  wore  a  cruel  brace  made  of  a 
coat-hook. 


The  Polkes  Described 


Eliza  was  seven  years  old,  and  Naomi  was 
three,  when  Saul,  the  youngest  child,  was  born. 
Naomi  remembered  well  her  little  brother's  bap 
tism,  on  a  raw,  lowering  November  afternoon. 
The  church  had  not  been  aired,  and  struck  a  fatal 
chill  to  Mrs.  Polke's  chest.  It  was  thought  that 
the  peevish,  ailing  baby  could  not  long  survive  his 
christening ;  but  he  grew  to  be  a  stout  boy,  while 
his  mother  went  into  a  slow  consumption. 
Naomi  could  always  recall  her  mother  in  those 
last  years,  as  she  used  to  sit  in  a  deep  chintz  chair, 
her  bony  knees  poking  up  through  her  petti 
coats — with  hollow  grey  eyes  looking  over 
the  rim  of  Bald  Mountain  toward  her  early 
home. 

Of  the  eleven  children  who  had  been  born  to 
Mr.  Polke,  but  four  now  remained  in  the  house 
behind  the  poplars.  An  aunt  of  their  mother's 
came  up  from  Charlotte  County  to  take  care  of 
them.  Marm  Patridge,  as  she  was  called,  was  a 
kind,  fat,  shrewd  old  woman,  who  sewed  and 


The  Polkes  Described 


scrubbed  and  contrived  with  all  her  heart  and 
strength  for  those  whom  she  called  her  children 
by  adoption  and  grace.  Titus,  the  eldest,  was  a 
dark,  lank,  stooping,  silent  youth  of  fifteen. 
Eliza  was  a  delicate  child  of  eleven.  She  had  the 
blue  eyes,  blue-black  hair,  and  delicate  complexion 
of  the  Polkes — Irish  colouring,  with  which  she 
showed  a  mercurial  Irish  temperament.  Her 
loose  frocks  hung  off  her  bottle-sloping  shoulders. 
When  she  cast  down  her  wistful  eyes,  a  faint 
pearl  shadow  fell  from  her  lashes,  painting  her 
cheek  beautifully  wan. 

Naomi  alone  of  all  the  children  had  her 
mother's  grey  eyes.  Her  hair  was  reddish,  her 
skin  a  freckled  amber.  She  was  short  and 
stocky;  her  legs,  she  thought,  were  as  powerful 
as  a  young  moose's,  to  spring  up  the  steep  rocky 
paths.  She  was  a  staid,  obedient,  blunt,  truthful 
child.  Her  father  called  her  best  trait  by  its 
prettiest  name  when  he  said  sometimes, 

"Little  Naomye's  a  sisterly  child." 


The  Polkes  Described 


She  was  different  from  all  her  brothers  and 
sisters  in  one  trait,  a  deep  absent-mindedness. 
She  was  always  being  told  to  "come  down  out 
of  the  clouds";  for  many  things  threw  her  into 
fits  of  musing,  such  as  the  sound  of  singing,  or  of 
flowing  waters,  the  woods  in  autumn,  or  the 
Psalter  in  church. 

Little  Saul,  called  Budsey,  was  already  a 
venturesome,  vagrant  little  boy,  whose  hands 
were  always  covered  with  warts,  scratches,  and 
cuts.  He  had  soon  outgrown  his  early  delicacy, 
and  his  cheeks  were  so  red  that  strangers  thought 
he  had  a  fever.  Before  he  was  out  of  petticoats 
he  had  acquired  a  tall  opinion  of  himself.  His 
great-aunt  would  trudge  away,  on  her  gouty 
limbs,  to  fetch  his  playthings:  and  Naomi  would 
run  across  the  garret  barefoot,  on  a  cold  snowy 
morning,  to  bring  an  apple  for  him  to  eat  in  his 
trucklebed.  She  thought  no  child  had  ever  loved 
another  as  she  loved  little  Budsey. 

Such  was  the  family  of  whom  Marm  Patridge 


The  Polkes  Described 


used  to  philosophise,  through  the  gaps  in  her 
teeth. 

"Theshe  childern  air  quite  a  care  to  me;  but 
who  elshe,  saysh  I,  be  they  to  look  to?  for  the 
Patridgesh  air  all  dead  but  me ;  I'm  the  only  one 
to  have  my  shroud  turn  yallow  with  age." 

While  the  Polke  children  were  picking  blue 
berries,  or  wading  in  the  pools  of  Roaring 
Branch,  the  clouds  of  war  were  rolling  up  toward 
their  hollow.  Awaking  before  daylight  one 
morning,  Naomi  saw  lanterns  moving  in  the 
woods  about  Westminster,  the  village  in  the 
valley,  where  two  sheriffs  were  being  given  the 
"beach  seal"  on  their  naked  backs.  The  west 
loopholes  of  the  garret  looked  down,  across  a 
broad  landscape,  to  the  Courthouse  itself,  with  its 
high  fenced  roof,  in  the  middle  of  Westminster 
Street. 


CHAPTER   II 
Call  Calk  at  tbc  Sapbouse 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep. 

NAOMI'S  young  cousin  Debbe  Darby  came 
up  one  melting  March  afternoon  to  bor 
row  buckets.  The  sap  was  running  on  Red 
Mountain.  Debbe  had  on  her  cowhide  boots, 
ready  to  plunge  through  the  spongy  snow  and 
reeking  damp  woods,  to  the  saphouse.  Naomi 
snatched  her  padded  bonnet  and  ran  out  to  join 
her.  When  the  sap  ran,  the  spring  had  begun. 
A  sharp  wind  blew  down  from  the  snowy  caves 
above,  but  the  little  girls  could  see  a  plough 
glisten  in  the  brown  fields  of  Westminster  far 
below.  Delicate  young-ladified  Eliza  stood  at 
the  window  peering  out  through  the  pane  of 
greased  paper  at  the  tomboys,  as  they  ran  along 


8  Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 

the  woods  looking  for  the  fringed  leaves  of  the 
squirrel  corn,  and  reddish  trefoil  of  the  wind- 
flower. 

As  they  passed  the  tollgate  house,  they  saw 
Debbe's  sister  Pleiades  sitting  at  the  keeping- 
room  window,  with  her  hands  clasped  round 
her  knees,  idly  looking  down  at  the  nine 
waterbars  and  the  fork  of  the  Westminster 
road. 

"What  ails  Pleiades?"  inquired  Naomi.  "Is 
she  sick?" 

"Sick?  no.     She's  as  stout's  hickory." 

"Why  hain't  she  up  at  the  saphouse 
then?" 

"Oh,  she  likes  to  set  at  hum  and  moon  about 
her  beau." 

"What's  a  beau?"  asked  little  Naomi. 

"Hain't  you  ever  heared  of  beaus,  you  ignorant 
young  one?" 

"No,  sir,  I  hain't.  What  be  they?  a  kind  of 
bunnit  ?" 


Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 


"Te-hee!  no,  you  ignorant  child.  A  beau's  a 
young  man  that  goes  a-visitin'  Wednesdays  and 
Sabbies,  and  wears  his  best  wescat,  and  greases 
his  hair." 

"Oh !" 

"Pleiades  has  catched  William  French  for  her 
beau.  He  comes  the  hull  way  up  from  Brattle- 
boro  to  see  her;  but  he  hain't  be'n  here  since 
Wednesday  evening.  He  missed  his  Sabby. 
Hain't  you  ever  seen  William  French's  nag 
hitched  to  our  gate?" 

"What,  that  humly  piebald  ?" 

"Don't  you  call  my  sister's  beau's  nag  a  humly 
piebald,  Naomye  Polke,  or  I'll  saouse  your  face 
in  the  hen's  pail !" 

"You  hain't  stout  enough  to  do  so." 

"Hain't,  hey?  Oh,  looky,  Naomye,  how  fast 
the  spouts  drip !" 

The  little  girls  "were  springing  up  the  steep 
path.  Already  they  could  smell  the  boiling 
sap,  and  could  hear  their  fathers  talking  over 


io          Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 

the  kettle.  They  heard  Mr.  Polke's  loud 
imaginative  talk,  and  Mr.  Darby's  cackling 
laughter. 

"I  tell  ye,"  Mr.  Polke  was  saying  to  his 
brother-in-law,  "there's  very  tall  talk  in  West 
minster  in  these  days.  Peleg  Sunderland  has 
be'n  over  the  mountain,  and  they  say  he's  fetched 
back  another  pair  of  haounds." 

"To  hunt  the  Beartown  Tories,  hey?"  inquired 
Mr.  Darby  derisively. 

"Captin  Hiel  Hawley  says  he  heared  a  very 
ribble  song  as  he  rid  past  the  tavern  in  West 
minster  a  fortnit  ago." 

"What  was  it,  hey?  'Town  by  Town'?" 

"No,  sir,  that  wan't  the  song." 

"What  was  it,  then  ?" 

"It  was  this  new  one,  Hanky  or  Panky  Doodle, 
I  believe  they  call  it.  Hawley  larnt  me  one 
verse,  but  I've  forgot  it.  It  was  something  of 
this  nature;"  and  Mr.  Polke,  in  his  fine  trolling 
voice,  tried  to  sing 


Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse          1 1 

"There  sits  a  cock  on  Windsor  walls, 

If  we  could  git  him  handy, 
We'd  pull  his  tail  and  whiskers  aout — 
Hank-a-doodle  dandy. 

It's  a  very  ribble  song." 

Mr.  Darby  inquired  in  a  hushed  voice, 
"Who   d'ye   think   was   meant   by  the   cock, 
Richard?" 

"Why,  James,  the  king  was  meant." 
"Then  we  better  shine  up  our  bills  and  blades, 
Richard!    We   better   meet   together   and    drill 
ourselves    into   a   company.     Parliament   should 
know  of  such  doin's !" 

"Yes,  by  hen!  The  king  should  know  of  it!" 
cried  Mr.  Darby.  "What  would  be  thought  in 
London  if  the  truth  was  knowed  there  about 
these  goin's-on  in  Westminster,  and  Jamaiky, 
and  Bennin'ton?  What  if  Peleg  Sunderland 
was  fetched  up  before  Parliament  for  sicking 
his  haounds  on  the  Tories  of  Beartown, 
hey?" 

"They've  got  so  uppish  in  Westminster,  they 


1 2         Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 

vaow  the  king's  Court  hain't  to  set  at  all  in  their 
town,"  said  Mr.  Darby. 

"That's  a  good  one!"  said  Mr.  Polke  mirth 
fully. 

"It'll  be  a  long  while,  I  guess,  before  the  Court 
doos  set  to  Westminster."  The  speaker  was  a 
young  man  in  hunting  clothes,  who  had  sat,  until 
now,  silent,  in  the  corner  of  the  saphouse. 

"I  forgot  you  was  there,  Tite,"  said  Mr. 
Darby.  "You  hain't  spoke  for  an  hour." 

"He  hain't  spoke,"  said  Mr.  Polke,  "since  he 
got  hum  from  Westminster  this  forenoon." 

Titus  Polke  shifted  his  long  legs  and  relapsed 
into  thought  again.  Naomi  saw  him  lick  his 
lips. 

"What  ails  Titey?"  she  muttered  to  herself. 

"I  guess,"  said  Mr.  Darby,  "the  Court  '11  set 
when  the  day  comes." 

"The  day  has  come,"  said  Titus,  "but  the  Court 
hain't  setting  yit." 

"Oh,  wal,  there  may  be  some  little  delay.     The 


Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse          1 3 

Whigs  at  Westminster  air  gitting  to  be  the  ring 
leaders  of  this  hull  trouble  all  over  the  Grants. 
The  canker  of  rebellion  is  gathering  in  this 
valley.  If  I  was  asked,  I  should  say — Cut 
it  aout  with  sabres!  Burn  it  aout  with  gun- 
paowder!" 

"There  was  sabres  and  guns  a-cutting  and 
a-burning  in  Westminster  yistaday,"  said 
Titus. 

"What  say  ?"  cried  his  father  and  uncle. 

"I  say  there  was  gunnin'  round  the  Courthouse 
in  Westminster  last  night,  and  two  good  fellows 
was  shot " 

"What  say?     What  say?" 

"William  French  was  shot  in  the  head,  and 
Dan'l  Houghton  in  the  belly.  French  is  dead," 
said  Titus  in  a  heavy  voice. 

"William  French!"  whispered  Naomi  to 
Debbe.  "Your  sister's  beau !" 

Mr.  Polke  and  Mr.  Darby  had  sunk  back  in 
their  chairs.  Mr.  Polke  was  very  pale.  Titus 


14         Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 

got  up  and  walked  to  the  doorway,  where  he 
stood  looking  out  at  the  dripping  trees,  and  chip 
munk  tracks  in  the  snow. 

"I  guess,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I'll  go  with  the 
liberty  party  now,  if  I  git  hanged  for  it,  as  most 
likely  I  shall." 

Then  he  turned  round,  and  saw  his  father's 
head  hanging  down  on  his  breast. 

"Father!  if  you  had  seen  his  maouth,  poor 
French's  maouth,  all  blubbered  and  bloody,  and 
heared  poor  Houghton,  how  he  groaned!  They 
stepped  on  a  stun  as  they  was  carryin'  him — his 
belly  was  tore  almost  in  two." 

"Stop — stop  tellin'  of  it!"  cried  Mr.  Darby, 
stopping  his  ears. 

"Father,  I  hain't  forgot  how  praoud  we  all  be, 
to  think  we're  loyal,  down  to  second  cousins ;  and 
that's  why,"  said  Titus,  "I  hain't  turned  long 
before." 

Mr.  Polke  did  not  speak,  but  Mr.  Darby  asked 
coldly : 


Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse          1 5 

"What  harm  have  the  king's  people  ever  done 
to  you  or  any  of  your  kin,  Titus  Polke?" 

"Why,  uncle,  I'll  tell  ye  what  they've  done. 
They've  pestered  and  bullied  the  hull  of  Cumber 
land  Caounty:  and  naow  they've  killed  two  lun- 
kin'  great  fellows  that  I'd  give  my  half  of  the 
gun  if  I'd  never  seen  'em  lyin'  there  .  .  .  poor 
French,  his  maouth.  .  .  .  I'm  sick,  I  guess." 
His  cheeks  did  look  mottled  and  purplish.  The 
sap  boiled  over  the  monstrous  kettle,  and  no  one 
saw  it.  Naomi  and  Debbe  let  their  cups  fall,  and 
the  half-grained  sugar  ran  over  their  aprons. 

"Be  I  dreaming,  James,"  asked  Mr.  Polke,  "or 
is  my  son  a  t-t-t-turnco't  ?" 

"No,  Richard,  you  hain't  dreamin'.  Your  son 
is  a  snivellin'  tail-turner.  Spew  him  aout — let 
him  go  in  a  ragged  shirt  to  the  Westminster  Mob 
— let  'em  all  be  shot  to  hell  together!" 

"Father  can  speak  for  himself,  uncle " 

"Be  still,  turncoat!  Have  him  gether  his 
clothes  in  a  bundle,  Richard.  Send  him  down  to 


1 6          Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse 

Westminster — let  the  king's  troops  shoot  him 
through  the  back." 

The  little  girls  screamed  faintly,  and  put  their 
fingers  in  their  ears. 

Mr.  Polke  said,  "You  hain't  any  son  of  your 
own,  James,  that  you  speak  so  to  mine." 

"God  be  thanked  for  that,"  said  Mr.  Darby 
grimly. 

"Oh,  father,  don't  hear  to  such  talk !"  cried  little 
Naomi,  letting  go  her  cousin's  hand  and  running 
out  of  her  corner.  She  ran  to  her  father,  and 
stood  between  his  knees,  looking  fiercely  at  her 
uncle  Darby;  a  feverish  colour  burning  up  her 
pale  freckles,  and  her  hands  clenched  until  the 
knuckles  were  white. 

"Shame  on  Uncle  Darby !"  she  cried. 

"Box  that  child's  ears,  Richard!" 

But  Mr.  Polke  did  not  hear.  He  saw  the 
delicate  hollow  in  his  little  girl's  cheek,  and  her 
grey  eyes  like  her  mother's ;  and  all  that  he  could 
say  to  Mr.  Darby  was : 


Tall  Talk  at  the  Saphouse          1 7 

"What  would  his  m — mother  think,  James,  if 
I  was  to  do  as  you  say?  Come,  Naomye,  climb 
up  on  father's  knee.  Hush — your  brother  Tite 
hain't  goin'  away  from  home." 

None  of  them  all  thought  then  of  poor 
Pleiades,  whose  lover  was  lying,  with  his  mouth 
"all  blubbered  and  bloody,"  on  the  floor  of  the 
Courthouse  at  Westminster. 


CHAPTER   III 
Dag  ot  tbe  JBattle  of  JBennington 

The  forest  cracked,  the  waters  curled, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea. 

THERE  was  a  swamp  in  a  deep  hollow  be 
hind  the  tollgate,  filled  with  matted  grass, 
brown  lilies,  and  adders'  nests.  This  became  the 
parade-ground  of  the  Beartown  Whig-Biters, 
when  Mr.  Darby  in  his  Italian  boots,  and  Mr. 
Polke  in  his  tight  Peninsular  uniform,  drilled  them 
in  the  summer  evenings  of  1777.  The  talk  was 
taller  than  ever  in  these  days,  between  the  fierce 
villages  of  loyal  Beartown  and  rebellious  West 
minster.  The  Biters  of  Beartown  were  a  miscel 
laneous  company,  and  their  weapons  were  a 
museum  of  ancient  and  modern  arms.  Bills  once 
carried  by  London  apprentices  in  Tudor  riots 
were  there,  with  cutlasses,  pistols  of  Portugal, 

and  even  a  tomahawk,  which  Mr.  Greenpiece  had 

18 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          19 

dug  up  in  his  sauce  garden.  The  children  of 
Beartown  perched  in  the  surrounding  trees  to 
watch  the  drills.  Naomi,  who  was  nine  years  old 
in  May,  was  thought  too  much  of  a  young  lady  to 
shin  up  pine  trees  any  more — she  and  Debbe 
Darby  must  carry  their  crickets  across  pasture  to 
the  swamp,  and  sit  and  knit  as  they  watched  their 
townsmen  drill. 

Eliza,  that  delicate  house  plant,  could  not  corne 
to  the  drills.  She  was  not  able  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air  except  through  a  fine  strainer  of  a  veil. 
The  tender  creature,  with  her  pale  pleasure-crav 
ing  face  and  asking  eyes,  must  sit  all  day  in  a 
baking  temperature,  while  she  executed  her 
fancies  in  needlework.  She  had  a  secret  piece 
of  work  which  she  would  fold  away  in  haste 
when  Captain  Polke,  with  Budsey  and  Naomi 
hanging  on  his  yellow-faced  tails,  came  up  the 
pike. 

Naomi  was  watching  the  drill,  on  an  afternoon 
in  middle  August,  when  the  Biters  were  swagger- 


2O         The  Battle  of  Bennington 

ing  to  and  fro  across  the  swamp,  swelling  out 
their  stomachs,  and  exchanging  tall  brags  and 
boasts  among  themselves.  Budsey  followed 
them  on  his  short  legs,  imitating  every  motion  of 
their  gait — a  baby  Biter.  Debbe  Darby  was 
there,  and  so  was  Marm  Patridge,  who  kept  a 
sharp  eye  on  the  little  girls'  knitting;  every  now 
and  then  interrupting  the  Captains'  orders  to  call 
out: 

"Pick  up  that  loop  you've  dropped  there, 
Naomye  Polke!"  or 

"It'sh  time  you  wash  narrowin'  that  shock,  Deb 
Darby!" 

"I  wish  the  Biters  could  have  be'n  in  Bostown 
a  couple  of  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Greenpiece 
admiringly,  "to  snip  this  rebellion  in  the 
bud." 

"It  was  decreed  otherwise,"  said  Mr.  Darby. 
"The  raskills  was  to  have  rope  enough  to  hang 
themselves." 

"Captin  Kiel  Hawley  says,"  put  in  Mr.  Polke, 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          2 1 

"that  the  hull  rebellion  has  petered  aout,  and 
Burgoyne  wun't  hardly  git  here  in  time  to  set 
foot  on  the  tail  of  it.  Washin'ton  is  as  good  as 
catched.  He  can't  get  out  of  York  with  a  hull 
hide." 

"There's  a  good  many  don't  sleep  very  well  in 
Westminster  these  nights,  I  warrant,"  said  Mr. 
Byjam  darkly. 

"Where's  Sunderland,  hey?  Where's  his 
haounds?  Why  don't  he  come  and  ketch  us?" 
cried  Mr.  Darby,  slapping  his  leg.  But  suddenly 
he  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"What — what's  that?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Look  ye  there !"  cried  Mr.  Polke. 

A  frantic  creature  in  pale  breeches,  with  pale 
streaming  hair,  came  fleeing  through  the  woods. 
His  coat  tails  blew  out  behind,  and  his  stick-like 
legs  hurled  him  forward  like  a  two-spoked  wheel 
among  the  brambles  and  loose  rocks  of  the  Red 
woods. 

"It's  Henry  Tibbald!"  cried  little  Naomi  in 


22          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

great  anxiety,  jumping  up  from  her  cricket. 
"Leg  it,  Henry !  Leg  it  faster !" 

"Sunderland's  haounds!"  cried  several  voices 
in  alarm.  "We  better  all  let  out  for  hum." 
Some  of  the  Biters  shinned  up  trees,  others  cocked 
their  guns  with  trembling  fingers. 

The  desperate  boy  fell  panting  on  the  wet 
matted  grass,  and  looked  about  for  the  beast  that 
had  been  chasing  him.  No  creature  was  in  view 
but  a  brown  setter,  which  now  came  nosing  in  a 
friendly  manner  at  his  knees. 

"Why,  it's  our  old  Snooper !"  cried  Mr.  Polke. 

He  whistled  to  the  dog. 

"What  made  ye  run  away  from  old  Snooper, 
hey?" 

"Why,"  said  the  youth,  "Pleiades  Darby  called 
out  to  me  as  I  was  walkin'  up  the  pike — she  put 
her  head  out  the  winder,  and  told  me  to  run  as 
quick  as  I  could — the  haounds  was  after  me;  so 
I  legged  it." 

"Haw,  haw !"  laughed  the  Biters. 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          23 

"Te-hee !"  cackled  the  children  in  the  tree-tops. 
"Hen  Tibbald  put  aout  up  Bald  Mount'in,  to  git 
away  from  Mr.  Polke's  old  Snooper." 

"You  needn't  to  laugh  at  Hen,"  cried  Naomi, 
stamping  her  foot.  "Budsey  Polke,  don't  you 
titter  again !  Any  of  you  would  have  runned  as 
fast  as  he  did,  if  Pleiades  had  told  you  the  same 
tale." 

Henry  Tibbald  gave  his  defender  a  grateful 
look. 

"W-wal,"  said  he,  "I've  fuf-fetched  something 
here  that  hain't  a  tut-titterin'  matter."  He 
pulled  a  paper  out  of  his  bosom  and  gave  it  to  Mr. 
Polke.  Mr.  Polke  read,  and  passed  it  in  haste  to 
Mr.  Darby.  In  another  moment  the  Biters  were 
all  in  an  uproar,  the  young  boys  shouting  and 
throwing  their  bills  and  hats  into  the  air,  the  older 
men  slapping  each  other  on  the  back ;  and  Marm 
Patridge  had  climbed  on  the  tipping-stone,  and 
was  trying  to  cut  a  pigeon  wing. 

Naomi  ran  to  her  father,  and  pulled  at  his  coat. 


24          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

"Who's  a-twitchin'  my  tails  ?" 

"It's  me,  father.  What's  befallen?  What 
ails  ye  all  ?" 

"What  ails  us,  hey?"  Mr.  Polke  swung  his 
little  daughter  to  his  shoulder.  "Why,  Naomye, 
this  is  a  day  of  glory  for  Beartown.  We've 
got  our  marchin'  orders  from  Captin  Hiel 
Hawley." 

"Oh,  father!  Where?  When?  How  you 
goin'?" 

"Afoot." 

"Oh,  father;  where?" 

"Bennin'ton  way." 

"Oh,  no,  please,  father!  I  don't  want  you 
should  go  there.  I  had  a  bad  dream  last  night. 
I  dreamt  of  a  mouse  catched  in  a  tail-trap — 
that's  a  very  bad  sign.  Father!  He's  walked 
away  and  left  me  jawing.  I'd  give  my  husk- 
dolly's  bunnit  if  I  could  keep  father  to  hum,"  she 
muttered  sadly  as  she  sat  down  by  Debbe  Darby 
again. 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          25 

But  Debbe  was  not  listening.  Her  ear  was 
turned  to  the  forest,  whence  she  could  hear  a 
faint  sound  of  singing.  It  was  a  voice  she  knew, 
and  she  could  hear  the  Whiggish  tune, 

"Town  by  town,  town  by  town, 
Allen's  tall  Green  Mountain  Boys 
Air  a-piling  down." 

"Hark,"  said  Debbe,  "to  my  sister  Pleiades 
singin'  in  the  woods!" 

"What  makes  her  do  so  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  ye.  She's  got  some  curious  ways 
of  late.  She's  all  the  while  mumblin'  to  herself, 
and  I  tell  ye,  Naomye,  sometimes " 

"You  speak  so  low  I  can't  hear  ye,  Deb." 

"Sometimes  I'm  most  afeared  of  her !  my  own 
sister!  hain't  it  ter'ble?" 

Naomi  felt  herself  shaking,  her  cousin  looked 
so  strangely  at  her. 

The  dusk  was  already  falling  from  the  high 
peaks  behind  which  the  sun  went  down  at  five 
o'clock.  Mr.  Polke  called  his  two  children  to  go 


26          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

home.  Rather  solemnly  they  walked  up  the  dusty 
pike.  The  ferns  along  the  roadside  were  dry 
and  withered  by  the  drought,  but  a  welcome 
dampness  began  at  sundown  to  exhale  from  the 
woods.  As  they  turned  into  their  own  gate, 
young  Eliza,  with  a  bright  red  spot  under  each 
eye,  appeared  at  the  window.  She  beckoned  to 
them ;  and  as  soon  as  they  entered,  she  ran  to  her 
father  and  shook  out  her  secret  needlework — a 
tiny  British  flag. 

"There,  father — that's  for  the  Biters  to  carry. 
I  made  it  out  of  an  old  red  petticoat,  and  an  old 
chimee,  and  the  little  blue  babe's  dress  we've  all 
worn  in  turn." 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Elizy,  to  think  of  it. 
Beautiful — beautiful  fine  stitches  you've  set  into 
it.  But  you  mustn't  set  and  sew  too  much. 
That's  what  makes  you  despise  your  victuals,  we 
think." 

"I  hain't  had  the  stitch  in  my  side  in  most  a 
week,  father." 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          27 

"Wai — but  you  look  peaked  to-night,  I  think. 
Air  you  well  ? — hain't  you  feverish  ?" 

"No,  father, — but  I  thought  I  had  the  janders 
coming  on  this  forenoon,  for  Pleiades  was  here 
to  set  and  sew  with  me,  and  she  stared  so  at  me,  I 
thought  I  must  be  turning  yallow.  I  don't  know 
what's  come  over  Pleiades  since  her  beau  was 
killed.  She's  got  some  very  strange  ways.  She 
looks,  and  stares,  and  creeps  like  a  cat " 

"Oh,  tut,  tut,  tut,  my  dear,  you  must  get  rid  of 
such  notions.  Marm  better  take  away  your 
needle  and  push  ye  out  of  doors." 

Eliza  began  to  cry,  partly  at  her  father's 
anxious  tone,  and  partly  from  a  natural  longing, 
not  quite  smothered,  to  run  out  freely,  like  little 
Naomi,  into  that  same  "raw"  air.  Her  father 
took  her  on  his  knee.  He  patted  her  head,  and 
smoothed  her  thin  black  hair  back  from  her 
lovely  brows.  It  was  sweeter  than  honey  in  the 
honeycomb,  she  thought,  to  have  him  do  so. 
Little  Budsey  whispered  to  Naomi, 


28          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

"Sister  cries  to  git  father  to  comfort  her." 

"Wai,  I  would  too,"  said  Naomi. 

It  was  a  solemn  supper,  and  a  solemn  walk 
down  the  familiar  cross-cut  to  the  pasture  bars. 
No  mockery  was  heard  from  Marm  Patridge's 
sharp  tongue  to-night.  There  were  a  great  many 
shooting  stars  in  the  August  skies.  Naomi  saw 
one  shooting  westward,  as  if  it  were  pointing  the 
way  to  Bennington. 

"Good-bye,  childern!"  their  father  called. 
"We'll  bring  the  raskills'  provender  home  to  feed 
the  bob-tailed  colt.  I  wish  we'd  had  aour  sum 
mons  a  month  ago;  for  this  is  the  tail  end  of  the 
war." 

Naomi  darted  after  her  father  and  pressed  a 
small  parcel  into  his  coat  pocket. 

"Here !  hi !  what  you  up  to,  Naomye  ?" 

"Father,  I  thought  if  you  went  over  Bennin'ton 
way,  p'haps  you'd  see  Titey ;  and  I  could  send  him 
that  passel " 

"What's  in  it,  hey?" 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          29 

"Something  .  .  .  something  I  set  store 
by " 

"What  is  it,  I  say?" 

"Wai,  it's  .  .  .  it's  my  Sabby  tippet.  I  want 
Titey  should  have  it,  for  he  must  have  wore 
his  old  one  out  this  hull  year  he's  be'n 
away.  He  can  wear  mine  for  bettermost  this 
winter." 

It  was  very  hot  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours. 
The  milk  soured,  and  the  dogs  licked  the  grass. 
The  stitch  in  Eliza's  side  was  very  bad.  In  the 
afternoon,  as  she  was  lying  on  the  spare  bed, 
tossing  her  lean  bare  arms  over  her  head,  and 
watching  the  sky  over  Bald  Mountain  for  the 
longed-for  thunder-clouds,  there  was  heard  a 
curious  low  boom  to  the  westward,  prolonged, 
renewed,  and  slowly  dying  away. 

"Hark  to  the  thunder!"  cried  Eliza. 

Marm  hurried  to  the  window,  but  the  sky  was 
clear  in  all  directions. 


30          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

"That  wan't  thunder,"  said  Marm,  shaking 
her  head. 

"What  was  it,  then?"  asked  Eliza  sharply. 
"Thar  'tis  again." 

"I  don't  know,  child,  if  'tishn't  the  shound  of 
gunnin'." 

It  was  the  guns  at  Bennington,  reverberating 
among  the  mountains.  Their  low  boom  sounded 
again,  and  after  it  a  murmurous  commotion  far 
down  the  south  turnpike,  with  voices  and  horns 
which  faintly  echoed  from  Red  Mountain  back  to 
Bald  again. 

"Marm  Patridge!  What's  befalling?" 
cried  Eliza,  clutching  her  Marm  by  the 
sleeve. 

The  dogs  began  to  bark,  and  the  stag-hound 
bayed. 

Budsey  ran  in,  with  Naomi  at  his  heels.  Her 
butternut  frock  was  hanging  off  her  shoulders  as 
usual,  and  her  stocking  yarn  was  trailing  and 
ravelling  about  her  feet. 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          3 1 

"Oh,  Marm!  sister — the  Biters  air  a-marching 
back!" 

"What  shay?  what  shay?" 

"I  say  the  Biters  air  a-comin',  and  the  haounds 
a-herdin'  'em " 

"And  Peleg  Sunderland's  a-crackin'  a  long 
whip " 

"What  do  you  mean,  childern?     Tell  quick." 

"We  be  a-telling!  Their  faces  air  all  grime 
and  sweat — oh,  it's  a  ter'ble  sight!" 

"But  father  hain't  amongst  'em." 

"What  do  you  shay,  Naomye?  Your  father 
hain't  thar  ?" 

"No — father's  missin'." 

Eliza,  with  a  little  groan,  sank  down  limp  on 
the  bed. 

The  commotion  had  increased  to  a  medley  of 
shouts,  horns,  and  fifes.  From  the  narrow  win 
dows  the  advance  of  the  procession  could  be  seen 
— a  crowd  of  impish  boys  dancing  clogs  and 
reels,  tooting  and  drumming,  and  singing  the 


32          The  Battle  of  Bennington 

hated  liberty  tune,  "Town  by  Town."  Behind 
them  marched  the  forlorn  and  beaten  Biters,  some 
savagely  lunging  their  heads  and  elbows  at  their 
captors  (for  their  hands  were  tied),  some  trying 
amid  the  drowning  sounds  of  the  liberty  tune  to 
make  their  own  song  of  "King  Hancock"  heard ; 
while  others  walked  in  silence  with  bowed  heads. 
Sunderland's  hounds  ran  alongside,  their  tongues 
hanging  out,  and  Sunderland  himself  marshalled 
them  from  behind  with  his  loud  whip. 

No  one  knew  who  had  betrayed  the  Biters. 
They  had  walked  into  an  ambush  in  the  tama 
rack  swamp  on  the  outskirts  of  Westminster; 
some  forty  Green  Mountain  Boys  rising  from  the 
ragged  underbrush  like  spirits  of  the  underworld. 
By  the  glimmering  light  of  stars  they  looked 
more  like  two  hundred  than  two  score.  The 
startled  Biters  fled  like  sheep  before  the  men  of 
Westminster.  Of  all  that  tall-talking  company 
but  two  showed  fight — Mr.  Greenpiece  and  Mr. 
Polke.  Mr.  Greenpiece  had  been  spared  for  his 


The  Battle  of  Bennington          33 

cloth  and  age.  But  Mr.  Polke  had  sent  a  bullet 
too  close  to  Peleg  Sunderland's  own  ear;  and  he 
was  mounted  on  a  poor  galled  horse,  and  sent 
over  the  Red  Pass  to  the  new  "liberty"  jail  at 
Manchester.  Riding  through  the  Red  Woods  as 
the  moon  rose,  trying  to  plaster  with  mullein  the 
horse's  raw  spots,  he  did  not  see  his  niece  Plei 
ades  Darby,  wandering  in  the  hollow,  and  mur 
muring  over  and  over  to  herself : 

"Wan't  for  nothing  I  rid  down  over  those 
twenty  waterbars  a-Monday  night." 

The  moon  which  was  rising  over  the  Red 
Woods  rose  too  on  the  field  of  Bennington,  where 
Titus  Polke  was  lying  on  his  face,  with  purple 
blood  spouting  from  his  ears. 


CHAPTER   IV 

f  Hne00— ttbe  <5reen  Silfc 

Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland  ? 
T  T  7HAT  a  dark  winter  was  this  on  which  the 
*  »  Polkes  were  now  entering!.  It  was  said 
in  Manchester  that  Mr.  Polke  gnawed  the  door  of 
the  jail  in  his  desperation ;  but  his  captors  would 
not  set  him  free.  Perhaps  his  captivity  was  in 
some  ways  a  piece  of  good  fortune  for  him.  He 
was  perhaps  happier  to  be  away  from  home  in 
these  days,  where  he  could  not  see  his  favourite 
daughter's  slender  body  visibly  shrivelling  away 
inside  her  garments.  The  stitch  in  Eliza's  side 
hung  on  all  winter.  The  least  fatigue  or  excite 
ment  brought  it  on.  She  grew  very  listless,  and 
would  sit  with  her  hands  loosely  clasped  in  her 
lap,  in  the  midst  of  the  busy  family,  neither  join 
ing  in  the  talk,  nor  noticing  the  pauses  in  it,  when 

34 


Eliza's  Illness  35 


Marm  Patridge  would  turn  and  give  her  a  long 
look,  and  say, 

"Elizy,  child,  you  don't  feel  very  peart?" 

When  directly  spoken  to,  she  would  blink,  and 
smile  as  if  from  far  away,  and  say : 

"I  guess  I  shall  smarten  up  when  the  snow 
melts." 

This  new  anxiety  really  helped  the  Polkes  to 
bear  these  long  months,  their  father's  imprison 
ment,  and  the  sight  of  the  new  grave  beside  the 
churchyard  fence,  marked 

Tytus,  Son  of 

Richd  &  Sarah  Polke 

Aged  1 8  yrs.  7  mos.  &  5  Days. 

To  Erre  Is  Human,  To  Forgive  Divine. 

Bleached  by  the  equinoctial  rains,  and  half 
buried  in  the  snows,  Eliza's  poor  little  British  flag 
now  marked  the  head  of  the  boy  who  had  fallen 
fighting  against  it.  Marm  Patridge  had  placed  it 
there.  "The  boy'sh  a  good  Britisher  now,"  she 
said ;  for  she  thought  all  good  people  were  British 


36  Eliza's  Illness 

in  heaven.  "Hish  mother'd  want  the  flag  at 
hish  head,  and  hish  father  in  jail'd  be  glad 
of  it." 

At  last  the  snow  began  to  melt,  and  to  run 
down  the  swollen  torrent  of  Roaring  Branch. 
The  Polkes  could  hear  the  cascades  roar  as  they 
sat  in  the  kitchen.  Eliza  now  began  to  say, 

"I  guess  I  shall  perk  up  when  the  popples  leaf 
out." 

The  poplars  leafed  out,  and  the  air  began  to  be 
life-giving.  Eliza  now  said  : 

"I  guess  I  shall  perk  up  when  the  turkeys  take 
to  the  woods." 

Before  the  turkeys  took  to  the  woods,  on  a 
windy  May  afternoon,  when  Budsey  and  Naomi 
came  home  from  school,  they  found  a  paper  nailed 
to  their  door  by  the  Gazette  rider.  It  was  in  their 
father's  hand.  Marm  Patridge  put  on  her  spec 
tacles  with  shaking  fingers,  to  read  it,  while  Bud 
sey  and  Naomi  jumped  about  her  chair,  and 
Eliza's  eyes  glowed  in  their  bluish  caverns. 


Eliza's  Illness  37 

"Deare  Childn  (&  Harm  P),"  the  letter  read,  "Yr 
Fathr  is  out  of  Gaol  I  gott  away  by  Mad  Tom  woods  & 
lay  there  over  ye  sugar  thaw,  now  I  be  in  ye  House  of  a 
good  Loyal8*  in  Winhaul  well  &  harty  in  Spight  of 
prizzen  fare  wch  was  in  ye  last  extream  Misable  If  twere 
not  for  ye  Treachr°us  passes  of  Stratton  Mtn  &  Sunder- 
land  his  bloody  Houndes  wd  come  strait  hoame  but  fear 
for  my  Pate  if  I  shd  be  Catched  agen  Is  little  Elizy  sprite- 
lier — ye  Boy  is  a  Bawlin  to  me — so  farewell  fm  yr  Loveing 
Fathr 

"Lett  not  one  of  ye  Goald  pieces  be  spent  out  of  ye  king 
his  jar  for  any  Sakes." 

When  the  letter  was  read,  Eliza  sank  back  in 
her  chair  and  clapped  her  hand  to  her  side.  To 
see  her  do  so  always  unmanned  Marm  Patridge 
and  made  a  sort  of  rage  rise  in  Naomi's  heart. 
Then  they  would  try  the  medicine  made  by  steep 
ing  toads  in  cider,  and  adding  dried  plantains  and 
spices.  Eliza  smacked  her  lips  over  it,  for  she 
liked  the  spices;  but  it  brought  her  no  flesh  nor 
strength.  Candlelight  brought  back  to  her 
cheeks  a  portion  of  their  old  delicate,  but  glow 
ing,  fairness,  but  by  the  broad  light  of  day  her 
skin  looked  dry  and  sallow.  As  the  spring  ad- 


38  Eliza's  Illness 

vanced,  Marm  made  errands  to  send  her  out  into 
the  air,  though  she  still  distrusted  its  "rawness" ; 
or  perhaps  Eliza  went,  after  a  little  urging,  to 
see  her  aunt  and  cousins  at  the  tollgate.  From 
these  outings  she  would  return  with  a  transient 
brightness,  which  wore  off  by  tea-time. 

While  things  were  at  this  pass,  Mrs.  Darby 
came  up  one  day  in  a  great  flutter,  to  give  an  im 
portant  invitation.  House  services  were  then 
much  in  vogue  in  those  parts,  and  of  all  the 
parlour-preaching  ministers  none  was  so  much 
sought  after  as  Master  Berkly  of  Jamaica.  Mrs. 
Darby,  who  was  a  very  blue  Presbyterian,  had 
secured  Master  Berkly  for  her  parlour. 

"There's  a-many  wants  to  hear  this  discourse/' 
she  began,  "but  I  shall  save  all  my  green  chairs 
for  my  own  kin;  and  I  want  you  should  be  there, 
Marm — let  poor  little  Elizy  come  with  ye." 

"Thanky,  no,"  said  Marm  in  her  weak, 
troubled  voice.  "I  hain't  much  heart  for 
getherin'sh.  I  tell  ye,  Shue,  when  Titey  died,  I 


Eliza's  Illness  39 


thought  I  couldn't  bear  no  more;  and  naow 
here'sh  their  father  away  and  Lizy  shick  sho  ash 
nobody  knowsh  what  ailsh  her,  for  she  hain't  no 
cough " 

''You  keep  Lizy  too  close  to  home.  She  hain't 
been  down  to  the  tollgate  in  a  week.  Why  don't 
ye  let  her  come  a-Sabby  afternoon,  and  sit  under 
Master  Barkly?  It'll  be  a  little  aoutin'  for  her; 
p'haps  she'll  be  the  better  for  it." 

"Wai,  if  it'sh  a  fine  day,  p'hapsh  I'll  fetch  her. 
But  she'll  have  to  ride  behind  Budshey — she  can't 
walk  ash  fur  ash  an  old  creeter  like  me,"  said 
Marm,  beginning  to  cry. 

When  Sunday  came,  Eliza  was  dressed  in  her 
nice  delaine,  which  hung  loose  on  her,  her  pretty 
calash  and  black  and  green  mitts,  and  was  lifted 
into  the  saddle  behind  her  stocky  little  brother. 
On  their  arrival  at  the  tollgate,  their  aunt  hung 
a  shawl  over  a  chair  for  Eliza,  and  she  sat  down, 
looking  very  listless,  to  hear  that  terrible  sermon, 
to  which  she  had  come  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter. 


40  Eliza's  Illness 

The  text  was,  "Let  there  not  be  found  among  you 
an  enchanter,  or  a  witch;  a  wizard,  or  a  necro 
mancer."  At  first  Eliza  sat  mooning,  as  she  did 
at  home,  but  after  a  little  she  began  to  breathe 
fast,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  as  she 
heard  how  poor  little  babies  had  been  pricked  in 
their  beds,  and  screamed  at  their  invisible  tor 
mentors  before  their  parents'  very  eyes ;  and  how 
at  last  a  doll,  stuck  full  of  pins,  had  been  found 
hidden  in  a  neighbour's  house.  She  heard  how 
cows'  udders  were  dried,  and  how  hens  were 
given  the  pip,  all  by  the  horrible  brews  of  witches 
in  their  secret  cellars ;  and  how  sounds  of  barking 
and  singing  were  heard  from  the  woods  about  the 
houses  of  witches,  where  neither  mortal  dog  nor 
mortal  bird  could  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes.  Eliza 
drew  her  breath  with  a  whistling  sound.  He  was 
saying  that  a  witch  as  far  away  as  Jamaica  could 
pinch  a  dog's  or  tabby's  ears,  and  give  a  child  in 
Beartown  the  ear-ache. — The  early  dusk  fell  over 
the  scantily-leaved  trees  of  the  forest,  and  Eliza 


Eliza's  Illness  41 

thought  she  saw  black  dogs  and  dancing  figures 
there.  The  sermon  had  done  its  work  upon  her 
simple  brain  and  feeble  nerves.  She  was  shiver 
ing  as  she  took  her  place  on  the  good  brown 
horse,  and  clasped  little  Saul's  waist.  Before  the 
pleasant  ride  home,  in  the  fern-smelling  dusk,  was 
over,  she  had  seen  strange  animals  in  the  woods, 
and  heard  voices  on  the  wind.  Her  bonnet  hung 
down  her  back  as  they  jogged  along,  and  her 
cheeks  were  burning  red. 

"Budsey,  I  see  monkeys  in  the  trees — I  hear 
them  gibbering!" 

"Oh,  hush,  sister!" 

"Budsey!" 

"What  say?" 

"Look  behind  us  if  you  dast,  little  brother." 

The  poor  little  boy,  so  tightly  clasped  by  in 
carnate  fear,  gingerly  turned  and  looked  behind. 
The  road,  stretching  down,  ridged  with  water- 
bars,  was  clear  as  far  as  he  could  see  in  the  gather 
ing  dusk. 


42  Eliza's  Illness 

"You  may  look,  sister — there's  naught  behind 
us." 

"Air  you  sure  o'  that?  Git  ap,  Prince.  Oh, 
ain't  it  ter'ble  to  be  aout  so  late !" 

"Why,  it  hain't  but  six  o'clock." 

"But  it's  so  dark.  What's  that  I  hear?  Don't 
you  hear  a  curious  noise?" 

"I  hear  a  woodchuck  clawin'  in  his  hole." 

"I  thought  I  heared  a  noise  like  a  petticoat 
catched  on  a  bramble." 

"Foolishness!  'Twas  a  woodchuck."  The 
little  boy's  sense  and  courage  began  to  return  as 
he  saw  the  house  and  barn  and  poplar  trees  of 
home  coming  into  view.  But  Eliza  huddled 
closer  to  him  as  they  climbed  the  last  bar.  On 
getting  down,  she  was  seized  with  the  stitch  in 
her  side,  and  frightened  them  all  with  her 
crying. 

"Oh,  sister,  here ;  we've  het  this  crock  for  you 
to  hold  against  you,"  cried  Naomi,  hurrying  to 
Eliza  with  a  hot  crock  in  her  apron. 


Eliza's  Illness  43 

"Take  it  away — I  wun't  touch  it,"  said  Eliza, 
shuddering. 

"Marm  Patridge,  she  wun't  have  the  hot 
crock!" 

"Wun't,  hey?    Wai,  give  her  her  snail-juish." 

"It  hain't  any  good,"  said  Eliza.  "I  wun't 
taste  of  it." 

"Sister,  what  makes  you  so  peevish?  Marm 
Patridge  spiced  this  for  ye." 

"I  wun't  taste  of  it." 

"What'sh  come  over  you,  Lizy?  You  wash 
alwaysh  gentle  and  teachable,"  complained  Marm 
Patridge  weakly,  coming  in  from  the  wood- 
house. 

"Why  can't  ye  find  aout  who's  bewitched  me  ?" 
cried  Eliza  fiercely. 

"Bewitched  ye?" 

"Yis!  that's  what  ails  me." 

Marm  Patridge  turned  very  white  round  the 
gills.  She  thought  of  the  uncle  who  had  died  in 
a  madhouse,  and  her  weak  old  head  spun  round 


44  Eliza's  Illness 

and  round.  But  she  said  as  firmly  and  sensibly 
as  she  could : 

"Naow  we  wun't  have  any  more  talk  of 
witchesh.  You'll  drink  a  cup  of  warm  milk  and 
lay  down,  and  little  Naomye  '11  be  here  to  wait 
on  ye." 

When  Marm  Patridge  had  stepped  out,  Eliza 
said  suddenly  to  her  little  sister : 

"I  know  who  'tis." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sister?"  asked  Naomi, 
whose  stout  legs  were  shaking  under  her. 

"I  know  who  'tis  that's  bewitched  me.  It's 
Pleiades  Darby." 

"You've  be'n  dreamin',  sister." 

"I  tell  ye  I  hain't.  She's  wished  me  harm  a 
long  while,  and  now  it's  come  true." 

"Sister,  you're  all  unstringed,  and  don't  know 
what  you're  saying." 

"I  hain't  either,  unstringed — I  know  very 
well."  Eliza's  brain  seemed  certainly  to  be  turn 
ing.  During  the  night  she  screamed  out  several 


Eliza's  Illness  45 

times  with  imaginary  pinches.  In  the  morning 
she  was  no  better.  The  expression  of  her  face 
had  already  begun  to  change :  she  looked  at  once 
frightened  and  sullen.  When  she  spoke,  it  was 
to  complain.  She  thought  she  was  tormented 
by  blows,  pricks,  and  pinches ;  and  by  monkeys  in 
the  tops  of  the  poplar  trees  outside,  who  looked 
in  at  the  windows,  making  faces  and  gibbering 
at  her.  Sometimes  her  arms  had  black  and  blue 
marks  on  them,  where  she  had  pinched  herself  in 
her  hallucinations.  Marm  tried  to  sleep  with 
her,  but  Eliza  would  push  her  out  of  the  bed. 
The  children  caught  the  panic  in  the  house. 
Neither  of  them  would  go  into  a  dark  room  alone, 
and  they  slept  with  the  bedclothes  over  their 
heads.  All  her  life  long  Naomi  could  remember 
the  very  sound  of  her  poor  sister's  cries, — "Oh, 
she's  pinching  me!  She's  tickling  me!"  and 
could  see,  in  her  mind's  eye,  the  black  and  blue 
marks  on  Eliza's  body. 

The  Beartown  doctor  had  no  medicine  for  this 


46  Eliza's  Illness 

sort  of  sickness.  The  old  doctor  from  West 
minster  came  up  the  mountain,  looked  at  her, 
scraped  her  tongue,  and  gave  her  a  vial  of  lily- 
water.  She  was  growing  gaunt  and  swarthy. 
She  was  carried  to  the  garret,  where  she  might 
feel  the  freshest  air  blowing  over  her;  she  was 
brought  down  again  to  the  living-room  settle, 
where  she  could  watch  the  passing  along  the  turn 
pike;  and  all  in  vain. 

Naomi  was  waked  up,  long  before  daylight, 
one  morning,  by  Eliza's  dreadful  cries : 

"Oh,  how  she  pulls  my  ears !  Oh !  Oh !  Let 
me  be,  or  I'll  harm  ye!  Hain't  anybody  comin' 
to  purtect  me  from  her?" 

"Yes,  yes,  sister — I'll  come!"  called  Naomi, 
running  barefoot  in  her  nightgown  across  the 
garret.  But  on  the  stairs  she  met  Marm,  pain 
fully  climbing  up. 

"Come  with  me,  Naomye.  Your  shister'sh 
quiet — fetch  your  brother,  and  both  of  ye  come 
with  me."  Marm  was  very  solemn.  Naomi  ran 


Eliza's  Illness  47 

back  and  waked  up  Budsey,  and  they  all  went 
down  together  to  the  living-room. 

"Both  of  ye  kneel  down,"  said  Marm.  She 
knelt  down  herself  between  the  children,  and  took 
a  hand  of  each.  Naomi  had  never  felt  anything 
so  solemn  except  her  mother's,  and  poor  Titus's, 
funerals.  Marm  began  to  say  the  prayer  of  St. 
Chrysostom. 

"Almighty  God^  when  two  or  three  air 
gathered  together,  thou  wilt  grant  their  prayersh ; 
now  shend  Richard  Polke  home  to  hish  childern, 
and  lift  up  little  Elizy  from  her  bed,  for  if  she 
hain't  better  ...  if  she  hain't  better  before 

long "  Marm  broke  off,  weeping,  and  poor 

little  Budsey  too  began  to  cry;  but  Naomi  said 
"Amen."  She  felt  too  solemn  to  cry.  She 
thought  the  Lord  would  hear. 

Eliza  had  several  bad  turns  on  that  day  and  the 
next.  A  dreadful  addition  to  her  moans  and 
cries  began — she  herself  gibbered,  and  screamed 
out  that  it  was  the  monkeys  that  did  so.  Marm 


48  Eliza's  Illness 

trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  wait  on  her. 
Naomi  said  to  her  little  brother : 

"I  guess  the  Lord  didn't  pay  very  much  atten 
tion  to  that  prayer  we  all  said  together,  Budsey." 

"There's  father  at  the  gate,"  said  Budsey. 

"What!" 

"I  see  his  old  striped  pantaloons." 

Naomi  sprang  to  the  window.  It  was  her 
father,  certainly.  His  ancestral  Peninsular 
pantaloons,  once  so  tight,  hung  loose  on  him  now. 
His  black  beard  was  very  grey. 

"Marm!  Marm!  here's  father!" 

"Childern !  your  father' sh  home !" 

"Hi,  hi,  father!" 

They  all  fell  on  him,  kissing  and  shouting,  but 
he  looked  about  him  with  troubled  eyes,  and 
asked,  where  was  Eliza  ? 

"Naomye,  show  your  father." 

Naomi  took  her  father  into  the  haunted  bed 
room,  but  when  she  saw  him  looking  at  Eliza, 
she  could  have  pulled  him  away  from  the 


Eliza's  Illness  49 


bedside  for  pity.  Eliza  was  asleep.  Soon  she 
began  talking  in  her  sleep,  and  once  she  cried  in  a 
loud  sobbing  voice : 

"Marm!  Naomye!  She's  at  me  again !"  When 
Naomi  flew  to  her  side  and  waked  her,  she  would 
exclaim  coldly : 

"Little  sister,  I  will  thank  you  to  leave  me  to 
myself." 

"Fetch  me  a  stool,"  said  Mr.  Polke  drearily. 

He  placed  the  high  stool  in  the  doorway,  and 
sat  down.  Naomi  brought  him  some  frizzled 
pork,  with  berries  and  milk,  but  he  would  not 
touch  them.  He  sat  in  his  daughter's  doorway 
almost  all  night,  beating  out  of  his  brain  a  plan 
to  cure  her.  It  was  the  plan  of  a  visionary  and 
impulsive  man,  but  of  one  who  saw  deep  into  the 
mind  and  heart  of  that  frail  creature  tossing  on 
the  bed.  He  recollected  the  asking  eyes,  the  crav 
ing  mouth,  the  high,  delicate,  quivering  nostril 
of  his  child  in  bygone  days,  as  she  used  to  press 
her  pale  face  against  the  window  on  many  an 


50  Eliza's  Illness 

afternoon,  weary  of  her  needlework  and  indoors 
prison. — At  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Naomi  woke  up,  smelling  the  spicy  odour  of  a 
bayberry  candle  in  the  garret.  She  saw  her 
father  at  the  feedbox  in  the  corner.  His  candle 
stood  on  an  apple  barrel,  and  lighted  up  his  vi 
sionary  countenance.  He  drew  out  the  jar  buried 
deep  in  the  feedbox,  and  took  out  two  of  the  four 
sacred  gold  pieces  they  had  saved  for  the  king's 
cause.  Naomi  sat  up  in  bed  and  watched  her 
father  down  the  ladder;  and  heard  the  south 
wind  blowing  up  from  the  valley  a  long  time 
before  she  could  get  to  sleep. 

When  she  woke  again,  the  morning  had 
dawned  in  rain,  and  her  father  was  riding  down 
the  mountain  with  the  moidores  in  his  pocket. 
He  rode  into  the  town  of  his  enemies,  trotting 
through  Westminster  as  boldly  as  Ethan  Allen 
had  once  trotted  through  Albany.  Only  a 
few  faces  looked  out  of  a  few  windows  at  him ;  a 
dog  barked,  and  a  peacock  screamed ;  and  a  little 


Eliza's  Illness  51 

boy  in  petticoats  began  to  sing,  in  his  small  voice, 
"Town  by  Town,"  as  the  sometime  Captain  of 
the  Biters  rode  by.  He  dismounted  at  Amri  Fal 
coner's  shop,  and  when  he  came  out,  some  wist 
fully  smiling  women  stood  for  a  while  looking 
after  him  and  the  parcel  which  he  carried.  He 
was  back  in  the  sad  house  again  by  dinner-time, 
lighting  it  up  like  a  human  sun.  He  was  in  a 
very  happy,  excited  mood.  He  taught  little  Bud- 
sey  the  sword-exercise;  he  played  creepy-crabby 
with  Naomi;  and  when  he  had  drunk  some  old 
hard  cider,  in  the  evening,  he  cut  pigeon-wings 
and  danced  clogs  on  the  kitchen  table. 

The  sick  girl  was  accustomed  to  sleep  a  broken 
sleep  until  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  the  roosters  crowed,  the  children  came 
clumping  down  the  ladder,  and  Naomi  filled  the 
yard  with  high  treble  shouts  as  she  drove  the 
cows  up  the  turnpike.  On  this  Saturday  Eliza 
woke  up  feeling  a  curious  twinge  of  colour  under 
her  eyelids.  She  opened  them  to  see  a  dozen 


52  Eliza's  Illness 

breadths  of  bright  green  silk  heaped  all  over  her 
bed,  and  the  sun  shining  on  it.  She  shut  her  eyes 
— opened  them — the  strange  and  touching  sound 
of  her  laugh  was  heard.  She  blinked  at  the  daz 
zling  vision ;  fingered  it ;  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  touched  silk  in  the  piece.  "Who  has 
buyed  me  this?"  she  wondered.  "Marm  has 
buyed  it  with  the  seed-money!  Oh,  no — I  guess 
I'm  dreaming."  She  rubbed  her  pale  cheek  with 
it.  She  could  not  keep  her  fingers  off  it.  The 
roosters  crowed  below ;  the  sun  shone  on  the  cab 
bages;  she  heard  the  churn  in  the  woodhouse. 
Budsey,  in  his  long  apron,  carried  the  bucket  up 
from  the  well.  For  the  first  time  in  many  a  week, 
Eliza  wished  she  were  up  and  dressed. 

Naomi,  clumping  down  the  garret  ladder  with 
her  purple  calico  hanging  off  her  shoulder,  heard 
her  poor  sister's  tinkling  laughter  and  rejoiced 
very  much.  "Oh,  Budsey,"  cried  the  sisterly 
child,  as  she  raced  out  to  the  stable,  "did  you  hear 
her  ?  did  you  hear  Elizy  laughing  ?" 


Eliza's  Illness  53 

"She'll  git  well,  naow,  probable,"  said  Budsey. 

"Father  cured  her !" 

"Father?     Haow  did  he  contrive  it?" 

"I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  P'haps  he 
catched  the  toad  that  has  the  lucky  jewil  in  its 
head." 

Eliza  was  lying  in  the  sun,  with  the  silk  drawn 
up  to  her  chin,  when  Marm  came  labouring  up 
stairs  with  a  dish  of  suppawn  for  her  breakfast. 
Eliza  wanted  no  breakfast  but  the  feast  of  colour 
which  she  was  drinking  in  with  her  gentle, 
sunken,  craving  eyes.  Marm  saw  how  well  the 
charm  had  worked,  and  beckoned  Mr.  Polke,  who 
crept  to  the  doorway  on  his  stocking  feet.  He 
heard  Eliza  say: 

"I  know,  Marm  Patridge,  you  buyed  me  this 
dress  aout  of  the  seed-money." 

"Guesh  again,  Mishtresh  Lizy." 

"I  warrant  you  did,  though." 

"Do  you  want  I  should  tell  ye  who  buyed  it  for 
ye?" 


54  Eliza's  Illness 


"Yes,  yes — tell  me  quick." 

"Twash  your  father." 

"Father !     Is  father  to  home  ?" 

"Yish." 

Eliza  got  out  of  bed,  with  a  little  swaying. 

"Git  back  to  bed!"  cried  the  old  woman  in 
alarm. 

"I  want  father!" 

"You  hain't  ash  well  ash  you  think  you 
be!" 

"I  tell  ye  I  want  my  father."  Sweeter  music 
than  that  call  for  him,  Mr.  Polke  thought  he  had 
never  heard. 

On  Sunday  Eliza  was  up  and  dressed.  On 
Monday  she  began  hinting  subtly  to  Marm, 

"Have  you  got  any  quilts  pieced  up  ready  for 
quiltin'?" 

"Ash  many  ash  three." 

"What  patterns  be  they,  hey?" 

"Job'sh  Trouble,  and  Tare-and-Trett." 

"I  should  admire  to  see  Job's  Trouble  tufted." 


Eliza's  Illness  55 

"Wai,  child,"  said  Marm,  "when  you  feel  well 
enough,  we  can  have  a  quiltinV 

"I  feel  'most  well  enough  to-day." 

Marm  considered. 

"Wai — I  could  take  hold  of  your  new  shilk 
thish  very  afternoon,  if  I  let  the  little  onesh  wait 
for  their  new  dudsh." 

"My  duds  can  wait — my  duds  can  wait !"  cried 
the  sisterly  one.  "I  can  wear  my  old  butternut 
Sabbies,  and  weekdays,  and  all!" 

There  was  a  quilting  at  the  Polkes'  in  early 
July.  Eliza  was  still  feeble,  but  she  was  getting 
her  colour  back,  and  excitement  made  her 
stronger  than  she  was,  for  this  one  evening. 
Naomi  and  Budsey  were  allowed  to  stay  up  to  the 
quilting.  Budsey  wore  his  old  yellow  pantaloons, 
with  yet  one  more  of  Marm's  quaint  patches,  like 
no  other  patches  that  ever  were  on  sea  or  land, 
set  into  them;  and  Naomi  wore  her  ancient  but 
ternut  calico,  lengthened,  with  a  frill  of  buff  tick 
ing,  to  a  decent  point  below  her  ankles.  Little 


56  Eliza's  Illness 

cared  the  sisterly  one,  when  she  could  see  Eliza, 
beautiful  in  her  shining  woodland  green,  with  her 
fair  complexion  and  silky  ringlets,  dancing  the 
Needle's  Eye  and  Meadow  Mouse  with  all  the 
tallest  beaus  in  the  town ! 


CHAPTER   V 
arrival  of  tbe  Zucgs— £tf3a  (5oes  to  Jamaica 

They  clicked  the  light  heel 
In  the  strathspey  and  reel. 

WONDERFUL  was  the  change  that  now 
came  over  Eliza  Polke.  From  the  mag 
ical  appearance  of  the  silk,  a  new  world  had 
seemed  to  open  on  her  view.  All  those  cravings 
after  pleasure  which  her  delicate,  confined  child 
hood  had  left  unsatisfied,  now  began  to  disappear 
from  her  heart  and  eyes.  She  made  up  now  for 
all  that  wearisome  needlework.  If  she  sewed 
nowadays,  it  was  at  some  new-fangled  piece  of 
finery  to  wear  to  the  huskings,  quiltings,  and  spell 
ing  matches  where  she  was  such  a  belle.  Her 
dreadful  illness  seemed  nothing  but  a  bad  dream, 
not  only  to  herself,  but  to  the  family.  Naomi,  as 
the  years  went  on,  could  only  think  of  that  deli- 

57 


58          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

cate  Eliza  of  her  early  years  as  another  little  lost 
sister ! 

Eliza  in  her  seventeenth  year  was  decidedly  the 
beauty  of  the  family,  casting  her  sister  Abigail  in 
the  shade.  Her  long  hair  hung  naturally  in  ring 
lets,  her  cheeks  were  a  clear  azalea. ;  her  blue  eyes, 
which  were  both  lively  and  liquid,  were  shaded  by 
wan,  bluely  veined  lids  and  long  lashes.  Her  dis 
position  was  growing  both  charming  and  trouble 
some;  for  the  eagerness  with  wrhich  she  indulged 
her  whims  seemed  excuse  enough  for  them.  It 
was  actually  growing  hard  to  control  Eliza.  Her 
father  sometimes  shook  his  head  over  her.  Marm 
Patridge,  with  a  shrewd  look,  said : 

"Lizy'sh  too  pretty  to  be  hulshome — she'll 
make  trouble  in  the  taown." 

Naomi  felt  deserted  and  left  behind  in  the  race 
of  growing  up.  She  began  to  feel,  and  to  look, 
wistful.  Debbe  Darby,  who  had  once  been  her 
playmate,  had  of  late  become  young-ladified,  and 
followed  and  aped  Eliza.  Budsey  was  growing 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          59 

too  big  and  boyish  to  play  with  her.  He  tagged 
after  his  father,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  skin-tight  nankeen  trousers,  and  made  himself 
a  little  bean-gun  with  which  he  went  off  hunting 
in  the  woods.  If  he  killed  a  mole  or  a  baby 
muskrat,  he  would  skin  it  for  Naomi  (who 
vainly  tried  to  make  him  forego  his  manly,  but  as 
she  thought  bloody,  sports) — but  he  would  never 
be  her  playmate  any  more.  Naomi  did  not  know 
how  much  she  herself  was  changing  too.  The 
indescribable  longings  and  lockings  ahead,  of 
which  she  was  conscious,  were  signs  that  she  was 
not,  after  all,  being  left  behind  in  the  race  of 
growing  up,  though  her  dresses  were  still  short, 
and  she  was  still  the  slender  shape  of  a  little  girl. 
Until  she  was  twelve  or  thirteen,  she  had  been 
altogether  a  child ; — the  capture  of  the  Biters,  the 
bringing  home  of  poor  Titus,  and  Eliza's  illness 
formed  all  her  past.  But  now  she  began  to  mark 
her  life  "by  lustres,"  events  important  to  herself, 
but  unknown  to  those  about  her.  The  morning 


60          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

when  she  had  watched  the  sun  rise  over  West 
minster  with  such  and  such  hopes  and  longings — 
the  dark  rainy  afternoon  when  she  had  indulged 
such  and  such  fancies  over  her  hetchel — these 
were  events  in  her  life  far  exceeding  in  impor 
tance  the  dipping  of  candles,  and  the  bartering  of 
homespun  for  tea  and  brandy  at  the  store.  How 
often  nowadays  was  she  recalled  from  absent 
musings  by  the  old  saying : 

"Come  down  out  of  the  clouds,  Naomye!" 
The  autumn  of  1781  came  on  very  fine,  with 
frosts  in  the  middle  of  September,  the  leaves 
hanging  on  the  trees  a  long  time  after  changing 
colour,  and  an  October  without  a  single  rainy 
day — thirty-one  mild,  mellow,  apple-ripening 
days.  The  blue  haze  hung  over  Jamaica  and 
veiled  its  fields  of  golden  corn.  This  was 
Naomi's  favourite  season — Eliza's  too,  for  it 
brought  the  huskings,  the  gayest  parties  of  the 
year.  Eliza  had  long  forgotten  how  a  stitch  in 
the  side  could  feel.  Scarcely  three  years  from 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          61 

her  nightmare  illness,  she  was  dancing  almost  all 
night  at  a  tavern  ball  in  Jamaica. 

When  a  young  bachelor  of  the  same  town  in 
vited  her  to  a  husking  on  the  last  day  of  October, 
Mr.  Polke  at  first  refused  to  let  her  go.  She  had 
danced  too  late,  he  said,  at  the  tavern  ball;  and 
Jamaica  was  too  far.  But  he  ended  as  usual  by 
yielding  to  the  mute  pleading  of  Eliza's  eyes. 
She  might  go,  he  said,  if  Saul  would  take  her, 
and  would  have  her  at  home  again  by  eleven 
o'clock ;  for  he  could  not  leave  the  parish  meeting 
himself  on  that  night. 

Eliza  spent  the  whole  afternoon  in  looping  up 
her  polonaise  with  some  rosettes  which  she  made 
out  of  the  train  of  it.  When  Naomi  saw  her 
pretty  sister  prinking  for  the  husking,  she  felt 
more  wistful  and  deserted  than  ever.  She  said: 

"Lizy,  I  hain't  got  anybody  to  play  with." 

Eliza  turned,  buttoning  up  her  charming  dress 
of  faded  maize  and  green. 

"Where's  Budsey?" 


62          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

"He's  out  huntin'  gophers  in  the  Branch  paster. 
I  don't  go  anywhere  with  him  any  more,  he 
stomps  and  scolds  me  so." 

"Why  don't  ye  sew  on  your  pretty  patches?" 

"I  can't  set  still  to  sew — I  feel  sech  a  thinkin' 
in  my  head." 

"Where's  your  husk-dolly?" 

"I  don't  feel  to  play  with  her  any  more." 

"You're  a  curious  child — what  ails  ye  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  sister." 

"Wai,  p'haps  I  know.  P'haps  you  want  to 
go  to  a  huskin',  and  have  your  petticoats 
down  to  your  heels,  and  be  called  Mistress 
Naomye." 

Naomi  made  no  answer.  She  was  lying  on 
top  of  the  feedbox.  now  looking  up  at  the  beams 
with  wasps'  nests  hanging  from  them,  now  down 
the  turnpike  where  the  sun  was  setting.  Eliza 
stepped  across  the  ladder-hole  and  said  pleas 
antly  : 

"Never  you  mind,  Naomye.    You'll  be  a  young 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          63 

lady  soon,  and  I'll  give  ye  this  dress,  p'haps,  when 
I'm  married." 

"It's  a  sweet  pretty  dress,"  said  Naomi,  "and 
you  look  sweet  pretty  in  it,  Lizy." 

"Thanky,"  said  Eliza,  running  down  the  garret 
ladder  holding  up  her  dress,  and  showing  her 
shoes  laced  round  her  ankles  with  maize-coloured 
strings.  Naomi  lay  still,  looking  down  the  turn 
pike  as  if  it  were  the  road  to  a  place  where  wan 
dering  wishes  came  true.  Marm  Patridge  came 
up  with  a  pan  to  get  some  cornmeal,  and  sat  down 
on  a  chest  to  rest  her  gouty  knees. 

"Why,  Naomye  Polke,  why  hain't  you  out 
doin'  your  evenin'  choresh?" 

"'Tain't  five  o'clock  yit,  Marm  Patridge." 

"It'sh  high  time  you  wash  to  work.  I  can't 
bear  to  shee  a  child  mope.  Air  you  feverish? 
Let  me  feel  of  your  forehead.  'Tain't  hot." 

"No,  I  hain't  sick,  Marm  Patridge,  thanky," 
said  Naomi,  still  gazing  out  with  absent  eyes. 
There  was  a  little  cavalcade  mounting  the  turn- 


64          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

pike — a  woman  on  horseback,  a  child  on  horse 
back,  and  a  man,  with  a  tall  spindling  girl,  walk 
ing  behind.  When  Naomi  noticed  them,  she 
cried, 

"Why,  who  be  these,  Marm  Patridge?" 

The  old  woman  hobbled  to  the  window, 

"Naomye  Polke,  it'sh  that  family  from  Char 
lotte  Caounty,  I  warrant  my  wig !" 

"What  they  doin' here?" 

"Hain't  you  heared  your  father  tell  ?  They're 
Toriesh  from  Charlotte  Caounty — they  wash  run 
aout  of  taown  for  it." 

Naomi  looked  with  interest  at  the  cavalcade. 
The  girl  on  foot  was  thin  and  bashful-looking. 
The  little  one  on  horseback  had  a  shock  of  black 
hair  falling  all  over  its  face.  The  man  had  a 
sword  at  his  side,  and  an  order  on  his  breast. 

Such  was  the  entry  of  the  Lucys  into  Bear- 
town.  They  slowly  passed  the  Pouncet  and  By- 
jam  houses,  the  Darbys'  and  the  Polkes';  and 
turned  in  at  the  deserted  sugar-house,  where  the 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          65 

younger  child  was  put  to  sleep  in  the  sapkettle. 
The  despised  loyalists  were  welcome  in  this  loyal 
ist  town.  They  arrived  at  sundown — before 
seven  o'clock  it  was  known  in  every  house  that 
the  father  had  been  a  Captain  in  the  British  army, 
and  that  both  the  children  had  heathen  names. 

After  tea,  when  Budsey  and  Eliza  had  set  off 
for  the  husking,  Marm  filled  a  basket  with  eat 
ables,  and  hobbled  with  it  up  to  the  saphouse; 
and  Naomi  followed  a  little  way  behind,  hoping 
to  get  acquainted  with  the  tall  girl.  The  Lucy 
girl  saw  Naomi  coming  dawdling  up  the  road, 
and  said  to  herself,  "Come  along,  red-haired  lit 
tle  girl!"  and  opened  the  door  and  bashfully 
stepped  outside.  She  looked  like  an  old  portrait. 
Her  head,  which  was  small,  was  set  on  a  long 
slender  neck,  round  which  a  loose  necklace  hung ; 
her  cheeks  were  the  warm  ivory  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds's  ladies.  She  wore  a  short,  tight, 
faded  blue  dress.  Naomi's  heart  warmed  to  her. 
She  said : 


66          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

"My  name's  Naomye  Polke.  I  live  down  here 
a  little  piece." 

"My  name's  Flavia  Lucy." 

"How  many  brothers  and  sisters  have  you 
got?" 

"I've  only  got  one  sister.  A  long  while  ago  I 
had  a  brother,  but  he  died." 

"I've  got  two  to  home,  and  three  married,  and 
five  dead." 

"I  wish  there  was  a  big  b'iling  of  us,  I  can 
tell  ye." 

"Why?" 

"So  I  wouldn't  ever  be  lonesome." 

"Air  you  lonesome?"  cried  Naomi.  "So  be  I, 
for  my  sister  Lizy's  grown  up,  and  my  little 
brother  wun't  play  with  me  no  more." 

"I'll  play  with  you,"  said  Flavia. 

"Then  you  may  wear  this  ring,  that  my  brother 
Budsey  made  me  out  of  a  mole's  tail,"  said  Na 
omi,  showing  this  valuable.  "Budsey  Polke  is  as 
smart  as  the  nation,  I  can  tell  ye." 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          67 

"What's  his  name,  do  you  say?" 

"Saul's  his  name;  but  we  all  call  him  Budsey. 
What  was  yours?" 

"My  brother  was  named  Darius,  for  the  king 
of  Persia;  and  my  little  sister's  Cassandra. 
That's  a  Roman  lady's  name,  like  mine." 

"Oh,  what  beautiful,  sweet  names!"  cried  Na 
omi.  She  thought  them  so  beautiful  that  she 
kept  saying  them  over  to  herself  as  she  dawdled 
homeward  through  the  gathering  dusk.  As  she 
undressed,  she  repeated  them  aloud  to  the  squeak 
ing  mice ;  and  after  she  had  got  into  bed,  she  lay 
for  a  long  time  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  think 
ing  of  the  Lucy  children  and  their  pompous  and 
beautiful  names.  She  was  awakened  by  Eliza's 
candle  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"Wake  up,  Naomye,"  cried  Eliza,  "and  let  me 
tell  ye  what  a  time  I've  had  to  Jamaiky!  Oh, 
I've  danced  it !  my  feet  was  like  feathers.  I  was 
dizzy,  I  was  so  whirled  abaout.  Oh,  it  was  the 
wildest  huskin' !  Father  would  have  brought  me 


68          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

home  if  he'd  be'n  there.  The  fiddler  played  the 
sweetest  gallops  I  ever  heared.  He  was  a  hand 
some  boy.  I  had  some  words  with  him.  Look, 
Naomye!  he  throwed  me  this  as  I  danced  past 
him."  She  showed  a  velvet  rose  with  a  green 
silk  leaf. 

"Lizy,  you're  all  agog — you'd  better  git  to 
bed.  You  wun't  be  up  till  all  haours." 

"I  don't  care  if  I  sleep  as  late  as  six  o'clock! 
Oh,  those  pretty  gallops — I  can  hear  'em  now. 
Budsey  came  and  twitched  my  sleeve,  and  said 
he'd  fetch  me  home ;  but  I  saw  the  moon  was  high 
yit,  so  I  stayed  for  one  more  prance  around  the 
barn." 

"Did  anybody  husk  any  red  ears?"  * 

"Oh,  yes,  Budsey  had  one,  and  Mace  Paouncet, 
he  had  one  .  .  .  and  the  fiddler  had  one " 

"Your  cheeks  air  so  red  as  I  never  saw  'em 
before,  Lizy." 

*  A  red  ear  of  corn  at  a  husking  entitled  the  young  man 
who  husked  it  to  kiss  all  the  girls. 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          69 

"Air  they?"  asked  Eliza,  holding  up  her  tiny 
blurred  handglass  first  to  one  beautiful  cheek, 
then  to  the  other,  and  smiling  in  a  strange  way, 
as  if  her  thoughts  charmed  and  yet  frightened  her 
at  once.  Naomi  forgot  to  talk,  and  lay  staring 
up  at  the  beams,  and  thinking  of  the  Lucys.  If 
the  sisters  had  been  growing  apart  before,  they 
were  now  divided  by  a  great  arm  of  the  sea  of 
life.  The  thoughts  of  each  were  strange  to  the 
other ;  they  lived  in  different  worlds,  though  they 
slept  on  the  same  pillow. 

Early  on  the  next  Sunday  evening,  while  the 
family  were  sitting  on  the  portico,  watching  the 
sunshine  recede,  field  by  field,  from  the  valley, 
Budsey  Saul,  who  had  been  looking  down  the 
road,  cried: 

"Here  comes  your  fiddler,  Lizy!" 

Naomi  looked,  not  down  the  road,  but  at  her 
sister's  face,  and  she  saw  the  red  pennant  flying 
there,  as  a  horse  and  rider  came  into  view  above 
the  last  waterbar.  Eliza  slipped  into  the  house. 


70          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

All  her  family  now  sat  looking  at  her  fiddler  as 
he  rode  swaggering  to  the  gate.  He  was  short 
and  slight,  but  very  handsome  and  spirited-look 
ing;  he  was  dressed  in  a  long  bright  blue  coat, 
fawn-coloured  breeches,  and  silk  stockings.  Bud- 
sey  was  almost  as  tall  as  he,  and  yet  he  felt  the 
fiddler  looking  down  upon  him  as  from  a  height. 
This  appearance  was  caused  by  the  fiddler  throw 
ing  back  his  head  and  squinting  slightly.  On  his 
asking  for  Mistress  Elizy,  she  came  out  dressed 
in  her  maize  and  green  dress,  with  the  velvet  rose 
at  her  breast.  She  seemed  to  see  no  one  but  the 
fiddler,  walked  straight  to  him  through  the  ranks 
of  the  family,  and  led  him  into  the  house. 

"One  of  my  beaush  wash  a  fiddler,  too,"  said 
Mrs.  Patridge.  "But  my  brother  Eliash  vowed 
I  shouldn't  have  him  if  he  wash  the  only  bach- 
elder  or  widower  in  taown ;  for  he  wash  a  peevy, 
ailin'  creeter." 

Mr.  Polke  said  nothing.  Naomi  and  Budsey 
were  sent  to  bed  when  the  owls  began  to  hoot  and 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          71 

screech.  After  a  long  visit,  the  fiddler  took  his 
leave,  and  Eliza  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched 
him  ride  away.  When  he  was  far  enough  out  of 
hearing,  her  father  turned  to  her,  and  said,  in  a 
troubled,  kind,  embarrassed  voice, 

"Lizy,  my  dear,  your  father  was  wrong  to  let 
ye  go  to  Jamaiky,  and  you  so  young  and  green. 
Budsey  was  too  little  to  go  with  ye.  I  see  you've 
made  friends  with  a  young  man  I  don't  like  the 
looks  of,  nor  yet  the  name  he's  got  for  himself  in 
this  caounty.  I  pass  over  his  being  a  nevew  of 
Peleg  Sunderland's,  though  his  father  was  a  rebel 
too,  and  's  daown  in  Virginia  naow,  fightin' 
against  his  king — but  as  to  that,  there's  be'n  a 
madness  all  over  the  country  a  long  while,"  said 
Mr.  Polke,  shaking  his  long  grey  beard.  "I  pass 
over  his  father's  and  his  uncle's  doin's.  But  I 
don't  like  his  reputation  in  this  caounty.  If 
father'd  a-knowed  Frederick  Dukes  was  to  fiddle 
to  that  huskin',  he'd  have  kept  his  little  girl  to 
home.  But  it  hain't  too  late.  If  he  rides  up  here 


72          The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys 

next  Sabby-day,  I'll  see  him  and  tell  him  my 
Lizy's  to  home  no  more  to  him." 

Eliza  turned  away  without  a  word,  and  reached 
the  garret  before  she  began  to  cry.  She  did  not 
hear  her  old  Marm  adding: 

"Peevy  creetersh  fiddlersh  air — Lizy  don't 
want  one  for  her  beau." 

Naomi  woke  up  and  saw  her  poor  pretty  sister 
sitting  on  the  floor  in  her  best  dress,  her  face 
hidden  in  the  hanging  quilts,  and  her  shoulders 
twitching.  She  called : 

"Come  to  bed  and  warm  ye,  sister !"  but  Eliza 
took  no  notice. 

"What  ails  ye,  sister?"     Eliza  made  no  reply. 

Naomi  went  over  to  her  where  she  crouched 
by  the  quilts. 

"Sister !  doos  your  tooth  haowl  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  child — leave  me  alone." 

"Haow  can  I  leave  you  alone,  when  you  set  on 
the  floor  and  cry?" 

"Leave  me  be,  I  tell  ye,  in  my  misery." 


The  Arrival  of  the  Lucys          73 

"Oh,  sister,  you're  very  unhappy." 

"Yis,  I  be — very  mis'able." 

Naomi  stood  patting  Eliza's  shoulder,  until  her 
feet  and  ankles  were  chilled  by  the  night  wind. 
Her  pats  were  balm  to  the  angry  grieving  which 
Eliza  felt;  for  it  was  nothing  but  angry  grieving; 
it  was  not  misery  at  all.  Mixed  with  it  were 
feelings  of  excitement,  pride,  and  undeserved 
great  joy.  She  breathed  over  to  herself  the 
fiddler's  words,  and  saw  his  small,  shapely  form 
painted  on  the  shadows  of  the  garret.  For  better 
or  worse,  she  was  sure  her  fate  had  come. 


w 


CHAPTER   VI 

JElt;,a  Sulhs 
HEN  Eliza  awoke  the  next  morning  she 


had  no  colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  nothing 
to  say  to  any  one.  She  went  about  her  work  all 
day  with  a  face  like  a  mask.  Her  angry  silence 
was  like  a  blow  in  the  face  to  her  father;  it  re 
proached  him,  and  made  his  conscience  seem  no 
longer  clear  toward  his  child.  Little  Saul  and 
Naomi  felt  a  dreariness  in  the  house.  Budsey 
took  his  bean-gun,  and  went  out  to  play,  but  the 
sisterly  one  followed  Eliza  about  with  timid 
efforts  to  attract  her  downcast  eyes,  or  provoke 
her  lovely,  sullen  lips  to  smile.  At  dinner  Marm 
spoke  across  the  sulking  girl  and  recommended 
her  father  to  smack  her.  Eliza  would  not  thus 
be  tempted  to  lift  her  heavy  lids.  She  ate  and 
drank  in  gloom,  and  went  away  to  her  churn. 
When  she  was  gone,  Marm  said : 

74 


Eliza  Sulks  75 


"She'll  be  aout  of  her  shulksh  to-morrow, 
nevew.  It'sh  all  dander  and  pride." 

Marm  Patridge  was  a  shrewd  observer,  but  she 
was  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Eliza  would  be 
her  old  self  very  soon  again.  Her  sullen  silence 
continued  all  that  week.  No  one  could  tell  how 
much  miserable  pride  Eliza  took  in  hanging  like 
a  pall  over  the  meal-time  and  evening  sociability 
of  the  family.  Sometimes  on  fine  afternoons  she 
went  out  in  the  direction  of  the  tollgate — no  one 
asked  where,  or  followed,  or  pried  into  her  com 
ings  and  goings.  Sometimes  she  carried  dishes 
of  sauce  or  pie  with  her,  and  Marm  guessed  that 
she  was  taking  them  to  Pleiades,  and  said : 

"That'sh  right,  child — do  you  be  kind  to  your 
poor  coushin." 

Pleiades  Darby  was  far  gone  in  a  sort  of 
melancholia.  It  must  run  in  the  family,  Marm 
thought,  remembering  Eliza's  terrible  sickness, 
and  wondering  with  a  sinking  heart  if  now  it 
were  coming  on  again.  Her  fears  would  quickly 


76  Eliza  Sulks 


have  flown  away  if  she  could  have  seen  the 
changed  Eliza  in  the  tollgate  kitchen.  While 
Pleiades  sat  moodily  picking  at  her  work,  Eliza 
and  the  feather-headed  Debbe  sat  off  in  a  corner 
whispering  together.  They  took  walks  down  the 
turnpike,  and  Eliza  came  back  very  glowing;  but 
she  was  careful  to  put  on  her  morose  look  again 
before  she  got  home.  Marm  Patridge  was  partly 
right  when  she  said  that  Eliza's  gloom  was  all 
temper  and  pride.  "She'sh  got  her  dander  up, 
and  she'sh  praoud  of  it — she  likesh  to  make 
trouble,  I  tell  ye,"  the  shrewd  old  woman  would 
say,  trying  to  convince  herself  that  this  was  all. 
But  on  the  very  next  day  she  would  be  stewing 
a  quince,  or  making  a  tart,  for  the  ungracious 
one. 

While  Eliza  was  thus  comporting  herself,  and 
causing  worry  and  sadness  to  those  who  loved 
her,  Naomi  was  beginning  to  taste  the  pleasure  of 
having  a  confidential  friend  of  her  own  age. 
Flavia  Lucy  and  she  would  often  nowadays  walk 


Eliza  Sulks  77 


to  and  from  school  arm  in  arm,  holding  long 
conversations  on  large  subjects.  Naomi's  mind 
expanded,  her  eager  thoughts  flew  between  earth 
and  heaven ;  and  she  and  Flavia  were,  if  they  had 
but  known  it,  almost  talking  in  poetry  on  some  of 
those  Indian  summer  afternoons.  Naomi  began 
to  think  that  the  greatest  event  in  her  life  was  the 
day  when  the  Lucys  had  come  to  Beartown. 

When  the  winter  came,  after  this  prolonged 
mellow  autumn,  it  brought  a  succession  of  such 
storms  as  had  not  been  known  on  Bald  Mountain 
since  white  men  settled  there.  The  drifts  were 
deeper  than  the  heaviest  horse  could  plough 
through,  and  yet  there  were  always  bald  spots 
where  the  yellow  ruts  showed  like  skeleton  ribs, 
and  where  sleighs  could  not  be  drawn.  The  wind 
from  the  south,  which  blew  up  the  valley  for  days 
in  succession  like  a  blast  of  vengeance,  turned  into 
a  sort  of  whirlwind  on  the  mountain's  shoulder, 
and  shook  the  houses  from  every  side  in  turn. 
The  snow  sifted  into  the  garret  and  into  the 


78  Eliza  Sulks 


children's  beds.  The  apples  froze  under  their 
hoods  of  quilts.  The  children  slept  with  cold 
feet,  and  the  cheek  which  was  not  sunk  in  the 
pillow  often  ached  in  every  tooth.  Four  or  five 
funerals  of  babies  passed  up  and  down  the  turn 
pike  this  winter.  The  cold  seemed  to  weaken  the 
tough  fibres  of  old  men  and  women,  and  Marm 
Patridge  this  winter  took  on  a  frost-bitten,  or 
age-dried  look,  which  in  spite  of  her  lost  teeth  she 
had  not  had  before. 

Marm,  when  she  saw  that  Eliza  was  not  losing 
either  flesh  or  strength,  by  degrees  ceased  to 
worry  about  her  health;  but  she  felt,  like  all  the 
others,  the  shadow  which  Eliza  cast  over  the 
household  to  be  intolerable.  If  her  father  so 
much  as  looked  at  her,  Eliza  became  as  mute  as  a 
stone.  When  he  spoke,  she  looked  a  thousand 
miles  away.  Marm  fared  little  better.  She 
might  pat  Eliza  on  the  back,  but  the  sulky  girl 
would  hang  her  head  and  barely  endure  it.  Na 
omi  could  only  rarely  drag  out  a  word  from  the 


Eliza  Sulks  79 


locked  mouth  of  her  sister.  She  did  waylay 
Eliza  one  afternoon  in  the  cold  pantry,  and  asked 
her.  somewhat  timidly : 

"Sister,  what  doos  ail  you?  You  never  speak 
a  syllable  from  morning  till  night ;  and  you  never 
play  creepy-crabby  with  Budsey  or  me  any  more." 

Eliza  looked  away. 

"Your  mouth  hain't  bitter,  is  it,  sister?"  con 
tinued  Naomi  in  a  faltering  tone.  "A  bitter  taste 
would  make  anybody  sulk  and  cry.  Do  let  me 
see  your  tongue,  sister!" 

Eliza  almost  smiled,  but  managed  to  maintain 
her  knitted  brows. 

"Lizy,  don't  sulk  at  father,  and  make  him  so 
mis'able — think  how  teachable  and  pleasant  you 
used  to  be,  when  you  was  younger;  and  don't 
make  everything  so  gloomy  in  the  haouse,  sister ! 
— She's  gone  and  left  me  talking." 

Eliza  put  her  head  back  inside  the  pantry  to 
mutter : 

"You're  a  good  child,  Naomye.     But  I  shall 


80  Eliza  Sulks 

never  be  happy  in  this  haouse  again."  She  went 
away,  and  in  a  little  while,  as  Naomi  sat,  sewing 
her  stint,  at  Harm's  knees,  she  saw  Eliza's  quilted 
yellow  petticoat  flouncing  through  the  drifts,  and 
her  green  tippet  blowing  in  the  breeze,  as  she 
walked  down  to  the  tollgate. 

At  tea  that  evening  Budsey  said : 

"Father,  there's  painters  around  again — we 
must  bait  the  traps." 

Naomi,  who  hated  the  traps  which  broke  the 
panthers'  and  wildcats'  legs  and  left  them  alive, 
crying  fiercely  in  their  pain,  said  : 

"Oh,  no,  Budsey — you  hain't  seen  any  painters, 
I  don't  believe." 

"I  hain't  seen  'em,  but  I  heared  'em  bellerin' 
over  Tempe  way  this  afternoon." 

"Was  you  in  the  east  woods?"  asked  Eliza, 
while  every  one  looked  up,  surprised  to  hear  her 
join  in  the  talk. 

"Yis,  Bill  Byjam  and  I  go  git  the  twigs  this 
week  for  the  school  fire." 


Eliza  Sulks  8 1 


"Oh !"  said  Eliza. 

"We  fetched  as  many  as  three  baskets.  'Twas 
dark  when  we  came  hum;  and  yit  we  saw  a  pair 
a-traipsin'  in  the  Hollow." 

Naomi  saw  Eliza  bite  her  lip. 

"Who  wash  it,  child?"  Marm  Patridge  asked, 
looking  up  over  her  saucer  with  blinking,  troubled 
eyes. 

"I  don't  know,  Marm.  All  I  saw  was  a  petti 
coat  flouncin'  along,  and  a  tippet  a-blowin'." 

Mr.  Polke,  awaking  out  of  one  of  the  reveries 
in  which  he  was  so  often  sunk,  took  a  long 
look  at  Eliza.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her 
trencher. 

"Marm !"  said  Mr.  Polke  suddenly,  "was  Elizy 
out  this  afternoon  ?" 

For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  Eliza  noticed 
what  her  father  said. 

"Yis,"  said  she.    "I  went  to  set  with  Pleiades." 

But  after  supper  Marm  Patridge  came  and 
twitched  Mr.  Polke's  sleeve,  and  drew  him  after 


82  Eliza  Sulks 


her  into  the  dark  bedroom.  She  closed  the  door 
and  said: 

"Nevew,  I  have  my  daoubtsh  about  Elizy.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think  of  her  doin'sh." 

"You  may  think  she  tells  the  truth,  Mistress 
Patridge !" 

"She  turned  ash  red  ash  a  beet  while  that  talk 
wash  goin'  on  to  the  tea-table." 

"Wai,  Marm,  it'd  be  a  poor  day  for  us  if  our 
childern  didn't  speak  the  truth,  and  had  to  be 
spied  on!"  cried  Mr.  Polke  warmly. 

"I  tell  you,  nevew,  a  great  change  hash  come 
over  the  child." 

"That's  true,  Marm,  and  it's  bad  to  have  her 
so  sulky ;  but  I  can  trust  my  sons  and  darters,  and 
I  shall." 

Marm  said  no  more,  but  she  thought,  "Richard 
Polke' sh  growin'  old,  and  I  shall  have  to  be  a 
father  ash  well  ash  a  mother  to  the  young  onesh." 
At  dinner  on  the  next  day  Marm  asked : 

"You  goin'  to  the  tollgate  again  to-day,  Elizy  ?" 


Eliza  Sulks  83 


Eliza  raised  her  head  and  said  shortly: 

"Yis,  I  be." 

"Wai,  I'll  go  with  ye,  and  fetch  'em  a  few 
butternutsh." 

Whatever  scorn  and  anger  Eliza  felt,  she 
showed  nothing,  for  she  neither  spoke  nor  looked 
up  again.  Marm  Patridge  painfully  hobbled  to 
the  tollgate  with  her  on  that  day  and  several 
others;  but  she  never  saw  anything  except  once 
or  twice  what  she  thought  a  meaning  look 
between  Eliza  and  the  foolish  Debbe;  and  she 
found  it  too  wearisome  to  her  gouty  joints,  and 
hateful  to  her  mind,  to  tag  Eliza  about  in  this 
way.  Sometimes  she  sent  Naomi  or  Budsey 
after  school  to  walk  in  the  east  woods  or  the  Hol 
low;  but  they  never  met  any  couples  walking 
there.  Once  Naomi  went  to  the  garret  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  found  Eliza  sewing 
fringe  round  her  hood;  and  when  she  saw  some 
one  looking,  she  tore  it  off  in  a  temper.  Yet,  as 
the  spring  came  on,  her  sulky  silence  began  to 


84  Eliza  Sulks 


melt  a  very  little,  like  the  icy  pools  of  the  Branch. 
Sometimes  now  she  even  wore  a  sparkling  look, 
as  she  stole  a  hand  into  her  apron  pocket  and  held 
it  there.  Marm  noticed  this,  and  drew  Mr.  Polke 
aside  to  tell  him. 

"Nevew !"  she  whispered,  "the  child  hash  got  a 
token!" 

"Wai,  Marm  P.,  what  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  'tish,  but  she  keepsh  it  in 
her  apern  pocket." 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  you  spy  on  my  darter, 
Marm  Patridge.  You're  in  her  mother's  place 
....  poor  young  one,"  said  Mr.  Polke,  turn 
ing  away. 

Marm  Patridge  shook  her  grey  head,  on  which 
the  first  tremblings  of  palsy  had  begun  to  take 
hold,  and  said  to  herself : 

"Wai,  I'll  take  care  of  the  poor  little  feather- 
headed  creeter,  if  I  can.  I  hope  her  father'll 
never  come  to  wish  he  hadn't  buyed  her  that  green 
shilk!" 


Eliza  Sulks  85 


Mr.  Polke  was  really  aging  fast,  and  joining 
Marm  Patridge  in  the  world  of  old  people.  They 
talked  together  of  the  seeming  wreck  of  the 
colonies  in  this  long,  ruinous  war,  which  was 
dragging  itself  out  in  Jersey  and  the  South;  and 
recalled  for  each  other  the  days  when  every  vil 
lage  was  loyal,  and  the  name  of  the  king  was 
cheered  even  in  Boston.  Mr.  Polke  shook  his 
magnificent  beard  as  he  watched  little  Budsey  do 
the  sword  exercise.  The  little  boy  was  well- 
grown  for  his  age.  He  no  longer  had  coughs  in 
the  spring  and  fall.  He  loved  to  sit,  in  these  long 
evenings,  listening  to  his  father's  account  of  the 
Indian  wars  of  his  boyhood,  and  his  escape  from 
Manchester  Jail.  Budsey  sat  with  his  ear  of 
corn  unshelled,  listening,  with  a  fine,  thrilled  look, 
to  these  tales.  But  he  was  full  of  childish 
humour  too,  and  could  mimic  the  dancing  of 
every  young  man  on  Bald  Mountain;  he  could 
shuffle  and  reel,  and  come  down  stamping  like  the 
most  accomplished.  He  could  draw  good  cari- 


86  Eliza  Sulks 


catures,  and  filled  the  margins  of  his  Primer  with 
tiny  smirking  portraits  of  the  big  girls  in  the 
Beartown  school.  Naomi  felt  a  pride  and  happi 
ness  as  deep  as  her  heart  could  hold,  in  little  Saul. 
His  warts — his  turned-up  nose — his  rough,  coarse 
hair,  were  handsome  to  her.  She  thought  his 
dancing  wonderful,  and  his  drawings  beyond 
compare.  Wherever  he  came,  he  could  always 
make  for  her  "a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place."  In 
her  box,  under  her  Sabbath  mitts,  she  kept  the 
catfish's  eye  which  he  had  once  scraped  for  her, 
together  with  a  button  from  his  first  breeches, 
and  the  ring  made  of  the  mole's  tail  which  she 
had  once  let  Flavia  wear.  She  often  thought,  if 
the  house  should  burn  down,  like  the  Byjams',  she 
would  carry  these  valuables  out  first,  and  come 
back  for  her  best  dress. 

Many  such  fancies  were  in  her  mind  as  she 
wandered  along  to  Flavia's  one  April  afternoon, 
with  her  bag  of  coloured  beads.  Flavia  brought 
out  her  bag  of  beads,  and  the  friends  sat  down  in 


Eliza  Sulks  87 


the  neglected  Lucy  orchard,  where  they  could  see 
their  townsmen  ploughing  and  harrowing  the 
fields  on  either  side;  and  where  they  could  see 
Hester  Pouncet  too,  sitting  and  spinning  at  her 
window. 

"Haow  long  it  seems  since  Hester  used  to  play 
with  us !"  said  Flavia. 

"It  hain't  but  a  few  months."  Naomi  spoke 
with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  tier  eyes  focussed 
for  a  hundred  miles  away. 

"A  great  deal  can  happen  in  a  few  months," 
said  Flavia  sententiously. 

"Hunh?"  asked  Naomi,  not  listening. 

"I  said,  a  great  deal  can  happen  in  a  few 
months." 

"Yes,  it  can.  My  sister  Lizy  has  fallen  in 
love,  for  one  thing." 

"Your  sister  Lizy !     Is  that  what  ails  her  ?" 

"I  s'pose  it's  that.     Hain't  it  curious?" 

"Wai,  wal!  It's  coming  quite  close  to  us, 
hain't  it,  Naomye?" 


88  Eliza  Sulks 

Naomi  was  silent  a  long  time.     "Flavy " 

"What  say?" 

"What  if  you  and  I  was  both  to  be  old  maids  ?" 

"We  shan't  be,  if  we're  good  girls,"  said  the 
wise  Flavia. 

"Good  girls  air  old  maids  sometimes.  If  I 
was  one,  I  know  what  I  should  do." 

"What?" 

"I'd  git  me  a  baby  somewheres,  and  fetch  it  up 
for  my  own." 

"You'd  have  to  git  it  from  the  workhouse." 

"Wai,  then,  I  would,"  replied  Naomi  firmly. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  was  to  be  an  old 
maid,"  said  Flavia,  "for  I  hain't  very  pretty." 

"Yes,  you  be  too !  You're  the  prettiest,  and  the 
sweetest,  and  the  best  girl  in  Beartown;  and  if 
you're  an  old  maid,  I'll  be  one  too,  to  comfort 
you!" 

"Oh,  Naomye,  what  a  good  friend  you  be !" 

They  leaned  back  against  the  pear-tree,  and 
looked  up  into  the  clouds,  and  spoke  their 


Eliza  Sulks 


thoughts  freely,  without  any  fear  that  either 
would  laugh  at  the  other;  while  the  sun  went 
down,  unnoticed  by  them,  behind  the  picture  pine, 
and  ants  and  grasshoppers  ran  away  with  their 
pretty  beads. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Blpbeus  an£>  /lbarv>ctte— Cbe  JGlach  Saturday 

That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 

TT  THEN  Flavia  had  modestly  said  that  she 
*  *  was  "not  very  pretty"  Naomi  had  warmly 
contradicted  her.  Flavia,  in  her  eyes,  was  pretty. 
She  had  a  soft,  colourless  complexion,  which  only 
a  blush  would  brighten,  a  bashful  blue  eye,  and  a 
deprecating  mouth.  Naomi's  own  looks  were  the 
opposite  of  Flavia's.  She  was  stout,  healthy,  and 
cheerful-looking.  Her  skin  beneath  her  freckles 
was  tinted  a  lovely  pink,  and  her  reddish-chestnut 
hair,  looped  over  her  forehead,  kept  that  white 
and  unfreckled.  In  vain  she  tried  to  think  that 
her  hair  was  not  red,  but  what  Marm  comfort 
ingly  called  "amberowne."  She  sopped  her 
cheeks  in  vinegar  to  drive  away  the  kisses  of  the 
sun,  but  all  in  vain.  Her  lips  were  large,  her 

go 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  91 

chin,  alas,  receded ;  her  nose  was  turned  up.  She 
gazed  sorrowfully  at  her  reflection  with  her 
honest,  vain,  troubled  grey  eyes. 

But  these  mournful  moments  before  the  look 
ing-glass  were  not  the  moments  when  she  looked 
her  best.  She  should  have  seen  herself  "all  agog" 
(as  she  called  it)  when  Budsey  was  going 
through  the  sword  exercise  before  his  father;  or 
when  he  brought  home  the  red  ticket  of  merit 
from  school.  She  looked  pretty  enough  then ;  for 
the  colour  in  her  cheeks  blotted  out  the  hateful 
freckles,  and  her  large,  homely,  generous,  tender 
mouth  was  smiling  with  love  and  pride. 

She  looked  pretty  enough  in  church,  when  the 
Psalms  or  the  Prophets  were  read — "Babylon  is 
fallen,  is  fallen ;"  or  "Thy  pomp  is  gone  down  to 
the  grave,  and  the  noise  of  thy  viols;"  or  "Blow 
up  the  trumpet  in  the  new  moon!"  Then  her 
small  breast  heaved  behind  its  buskboard,  and  she 
looked  out  the  high  church  windows  at  the  tree- 
tops  as  if  she  saw  David  there,  playing  his  harp. 


92  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

She  looked  pretty  enough  when  walking  alone  in 
the  woods,  forgetful  of  the  berries  or  eggs  for 
which  she  had  come;  or  talking  with  Flavia;  or 
staring  out,  over  her  morning  washbowl,  at 
Westminster  valley  full  of  bright  mist.  Then 
thoughts  sweeter  than  honey  came  into  her  mind, 
and  she  seemed  to  see  her  life  unfolding  like  a 
path  through  the  spring  woods.  The  next  turn 
might  show  a  plantation  of  the  ferny  squirrel 
corn,  or  a  mat  of  blue  hepaticas.  Young  boys 
and  girls  feel  such  a  glow  and  certainty  of  com 
ing  joy;  for  whatever  in  later  life  seems  too 
pleasant  to  be  true,  in  youth  seems  too  pleasant  to 
be  mistaken. 

It  was  a  part  of  these  rhapsodies  of  her  early 
teens,  that  Naomi  supposed  they  were  peculiar  to 
herself.  She  did  not  suppose  that  Flavia  had  the 
same  feelings.  It  was  a  part,  too,  of  their  great 
ness  that  common  words  would  not  describe  them. 
No!  the  terms  which  suited  candle-dipping  and 
apple-stringing  would  not  do  tc  tell  Flavia 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  93 

Naomi's  new  thoughts, — or  to  tell  Naomi 
Flavia's. 

By  very  slow  degrees,  in  the  month  of  May, 
Naomi  began  to  be  aware  that  Flavia  Lucy  had 
a  secret  from  her.  One  of  those  blushes  which 
so  beautified  Flavia  first  told  her ;  and  next,  a  fear 
ful  falling-off  in  Flavia's  amount  of  spinning; 
and  at  last  the  burdock  under  the  seckel-pear  tree 
gave  away  the  whole  secret. 

The  friends  were  sitting  on  the  circular  bench 
under  the  pear-tree,  when  a  chipmunk  peeped 
from  behind  the  great  burdock,  and  Naomi  cau 
tiously  parted  the  leaves  to  find  his  hole. 

"Hi,  hi,  Naomye !"  cried  Flavia  in  alarm.  "Let 
go  o'  that — I  don't  want  you  should  handle  that 
dock !" 

"Why  hain't  I  to  handle  it?" 

"Wai,  because.  ...  I  tell  ye  not  to." 

"Flavia  Lucy,  I  see  what  the  trouble  is  with 
you!" 

"No,  you  don't — there  hain't  any  trouble " 


94  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

"You've  got  a  secret!  I  suspected  it  as  much 
as  a  week  ago." 

Flavia  said  nothing. 

"I'm  your  best  bosom  friend,  and  here  you've 
got  a  secret  from  me." 

"Hain't  much  of  a  secret/'  muttered  Flavia. 

"I'll  bid  you  good-afternoon,  Miss  Lucy,"  said 
Naomi,  gathering  up  all  the  pieces  of  Budsey's 
new  pantaloons,  which  she  had  been  stitching 
together. 

"Set  down  again,  Naomye!  I'll  tell  ye  what 
'tis." 

"P'haps  I  don't  care  to  hear  it,  naow,"  said 
Naomi,  but  with  a  yearning  glance  toward  the 
burdock. 

"You  may  look  for  yourself,  Naomye.  I  don't 
care  if  you  know  of  it,  but  I  don't  want — sh!  is 
that  her? — I  don't  want  my  mother  should 
know." 

Thus  mollified,  Naomi  approached  the  giant 
weed  again,  and  parted  its  leaves — to  find  at  the 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  95 

roots  a  thick  brown  book,  much  worn,  tied  to 
gether  with  a  tape. 

"What  ails  you  at  this  book?"  asked  Naomi, 
untying  the  tapes.  "It  looks  like  a  pretty 
one." 

"Tis  a  pretty  one,"  said  Flavia.  "A  sweet 
pretty  tale." 

"Then  what  grudge  has  your  mother  got 
against  it,  hey?" 

"Naomye  Polke,  it's  a  novil!" 

"Is  that  anything  against  it?" 

"Why,  yis!  You  hain't  got  one  in  your 
haouse,  have  ye  ?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  have  or  not." 

"Mother  wouldn't  let  me  read  a  novil  for  any 
sakes  if  she  knowed  of  it.  She  says  no  young 
lady  would  read  one.  I  guess  any  young  lady 
would  read  this  that  could  git  her  tabs  on  it! 
Fan  Paouncet  lent  it  to  me.  It's  the  sweetest 
tale,  and  the  saddest  one,  you  ever  heared." 

"What's  the  name  of  it?"  asked  Naomi. 


96  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

"  'Alpheus  and  Maryette/  I  was  goin'  to  lend 
it  to  you  as  quick  as  I  could  finish  it.  Fan  Paoun- 
cet  said  I  could.  I  kep'  it  a  secret  from  you  be 
cause  I  was  afeared — afeared  you  might  forget, 
and  let  on  to  mother,  or  to  Aunt  Marye." 

Naomi  was  not  listening.  She  was  reading 
the  novel. 

"Maryette,"  continued  Flavia,  "was  a  beautiful 
young  lady.  But  very  delicut.  She  was  pale 
and  slim,  and  no  wonder,  she'd  be'n  through  such 
terrible  scares.  She  was  locked  up  in  a  lonesome 
castle,  for  one  thing,  because  she  wouldn't  marry 
the  wicked  Marquis." 

"What  happened  to  her  then  ?  Did  she  die  ?  or 
what  befell  to  her?" 

"Oh,  no — there  was  a  young  man  around 
named  Alpheus.  He  was  a  good  deal  bigger 
punkins  than  the  Marquis.  Maryette  was  in 
love  with  him." 

"Wai,  what  did  he  do?" 

"Why,  he  gave  a  hull  gallon  of  whiskey  to  the 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  97 

sentinel,  and  got  into  the  castle,  and  fetched  aout 
Maryette." 

"I  s'pose  he  was  in  love  with  her?" 

"Wai,  I  guess  yes!  I  never  heared  of  any 
body  so  much  in  love." 

"Then  they  git  married,  don't  they  ?" 

"Git  married — oh,  no !  I've  peeked  over  into 
the  tail  end  of  it,  and  it  says  they  died  locked  in 
one  another's  arms." 

"Where  does  it  tell  about  that?"  asked  Naomi. 

"About  which?  Where  they  die,  and  so 
forth?" 

"No,  not  that.  About  her  .  .  .  why,  you 
know,  .  .  .  her  being  in  love  with  this  young 
man." 

"I'll  read  it  to  ye.  I  never  heared  of  anybody 
so  much  in  love." 

"Wai,  find  it  and  read  it,"  said  Naomi,  sur 
rendering  the  book  to  Flavia. 

"You  watch  and  see  if  anybody's  coming, 
then." 


98  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

Flavia  found  the  place,  and  read  to  her  friend 
the  flowery  description  of  Maryette's  love  for 
Alpheus.  It  carried  them  both  far  away  from 
the  pasture  where  they  sat,  to  the 

"Magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn." 

As  Naomi  walked  home,  she  thought : 

"I  wonder  if  Maryette  was  fonder  of  that  Al 
pheus  than  I  be  of  little  Budsey  ?  I  can't  scarcely 
believe  it.  P'haps  Maryette  was  an  only  child, 
poor  creeter." 

In  the  night  she  awoke  and  lay  thinking  of 
Alpheus  and  Maryette.  She  looked  at  Eliza's 
dark  head  on  the  pillow  beside  her,  the  beautiful 
black  braid  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Eliza  was  breathing  very  softly.  Her  younger 
sister  gazed  respectfully,  and  said  to  her 
self: 

"Elizy's  felt  it — she  feels  it  now.  I  wonder  if 
she  feels  it  in  her  sleep?  P'haps  she's  dreaming 
about  Alpheus — I  mean  the  fiddler.  Poor  Elizy, 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  99 

I  pity  her  and  yet  I  envy  her.  I  wonder  ...  if 
my  turn'll  ever  come?" 

Budsey  Saul  coughed  in  his  sleep,  behind  the 
partition  of  quilts  on  the  Tempe  side  of  the  gar 
ret.  The  sisterly  child  sat  up  with  an  anxious, 
puckered  face,  and  her  fancies  all  scattered  and 
forgotten. 

'That's  the  second  time  I've  heared  Budsey 
cough !  He's  kicked  his  comforter  off,  I  warrant. 
I  wouldn't  have  him  cough  again  for  any  sakes. 
Three  times  inside  of  an  hour  means  a  cold  on  the 
lungs,  Marm  always  says."  She  ran  barefoot 
across  the  moonlit  floor,  and  tucked  the  quilt 
about  young  Saul.  Four  times,  half-awake,  he 
flung  it  off,  and  each  time  Naomi  patiently 
covered  him  up  again.  At  last  he  submitted,  and 
his  disturbed  slumber  settled  down  again  on  his 
tanned  face  beneath  its  rough  thatch  of  tow  hair 
— that  homely  face  which  Naomi  thought  so 
handsome. 

But  Naomi,  whose  solicitude  for  her  young 


ioo  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

brother  was  as  an  ^olian  harp  to  every  wind 
that  blew,  knelt  down  beside  his  bed  and  prayed 
for  a  long  time  on  his  behalf. 

"God  bless  my  darling  brother  Budsey,  and  let 
him  not  have  a  cold  on  his  lungs,  but  deliver  him 
from  this  cough — let  not  the  sun  harm  him  by 
day,  nor  the  moon  by  night.  A  thousand  shall 
fall  beside  him,  and  ten  thousand  at  his  right 
hand,  but  let  it  not  come  nigh  him.  Make  him 
grow  as  tall  as  They,  and  never  have  a  hollow 
chest.  Let  him  get  up  to  the  head  of  the  spell 
ing  class,  and  stay  there  a  hull  week.  But  let  him 
not  cough  the  third  time,  for  Marm  says,  etc. 
Amen." 

Thus  Naomi  prayed,  and  not  for  the  first  time, 
kneeling  on  the  cold  garret  floor,  and  trying  to 
cover  Budsey's  whole  future,  up  to  old  age,  with 
sisterly  hopes  and  plans,  and  mapping  out  a  hun 
dred  blessings  for  him! 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  she  was  not 
at  all  startled  to  find  herself  alone  in  the  bed 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  101 

which  she  shared  with  Eliza.  Even  when  she 
spied  Eliza's  everyday  dress  still  hanging  on  its 
nail,  she  only  thought : 

"Lizy's  gone  out  early  to  pick  the  worms  off  the 
cabbages ;  but  how  came  she  not  to  put  on  her  old 
gown?  She's  worn  that  polonaise  of  Marm's,  I 
warrant."  She  gave  it  no  more  consideration, 
but  sprang  up  and  buttoned  her  calico,  by  its  one 
wooden  billet,  round  her  neck,  and  raced  away  to 
the  woods  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  for  partridge 
eggs.  No  one  else  was  awake  in  the  house;  it 
was  not  yet  five  o'clock.  She  knew  where  to 
look  for  partridge  nests  in  the  roots  of  trees  be 
side  the  water;  and  she  had  filled  her  basket  and 
started  homeward,  when — who  was  this  running 
so  pell-mell  through  the  briers  and  underbrush, 
tearing  his  pantaloons  ?  It  was  Budsey,  panting, 
and  calling,  "Naomye!  Naomye!  Where  be 
you?"  His  eyes  were  bulging,  his  hair  wet,  and 
his  cheeks  were  scarlet. 

"What's     wanted,     little    brother?"     shouted 


IO2  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

Naomi,  crashing  through  the  blackberry 
vines. 

"You're  wanted  to  hum!  Elizy 's  gone!"  he 
shouted  back. 

"What  say?" 

"Sister  Lizy's  gone !" 

"Elizy  gone !     Gone  where  ?" 

"Nobody  knows.  You're  to  hasten  hum, 
and  let  what  eggs  you  can't  run  with, 
be." 

"Marm  told  me  to  fetch  'em  home." 

"Fetch  'em  then,  but  leg  it  better  than  that,  you 
snail.  I'm  all  beat  aout  trying  to  keep  back  with 
ye,"  prevaricated  the  little  boy,  who  was  well- 
nigh  tired  out. 

"Elizy  gone!"  repeated  Naomi  in  her  deep 
amazement,  as  she  ran  alongside  her  brother 
through  the  yellow-green  glades.  "Nobody 
knows  where,  you  say?  Did  she  flee  away  with 
the  fiddler?" 

"I  tell  ye  I  don't  know.     All  I  know  is,  that 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  103 

she  took  the  white  mare; — and  the  black's  lame; 
and  father's  at  his  wits'  end.  She  left  a  piece  of 
paper  for  father,  and  he  sets  and  reads  it,  and 
shakes  his  head  over  it." 

"What  doos  she  say  in  the  paper?" 

"I  don't  know.  Can't  you  leg  it  faster  ?  You 
must  be  too  fleshy  to  run." 

With  such  bold  remarks  the  little  boy  covered 
up  the  fact  that  he  could  scarcely  run  himself,  and 
was  purring  and  panting. 

Marm  Patridge  met  them  at  the  gate.  She 
looked  blown  and  dishevelled.  She  still  had  on 
her  nightcap,  and  her  pocket  was  hanging  out 
side  her  dress,  and  her  eyes  looked  smarting. 
She  took  Naomi  by  the  shoulders,  and  walked  her 
into  the  house. 

"Come  in  here,  Naomye,  till  I  tell  you  thish 
bad  newsh  about  your  shister,"  said  she.  Naomi 
too  began  to  cry;  the  morning  darkened,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  home  was  chilled,  as  if  there  were 
a  fog  indoors. 


104  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

"Your  shister  hash  fled  away  with  that  fiddler, 
Naomye,"  said  her  old  Marm  severely. 

Naomi  said  nothing,  but  stared  at  Marm  Pat- 
ridge. 

"She'sh  left  a  letter  for  your  father.  He  wun't 
let  nobody  read  it,  but  I  know  full  well  what'sh  in 
it.  Your  shister  hain't  be'n  a  good  girl." 

"I  know  she  wa'nt,  Marm,  of  late.  She  sulked 
a  great  deal." 

Marm  Patridge  wept  afresh.  "Wai,  wal," 
said  she,  "you'd  better  go  and  comfort  your 
father  with  your  prattle,  if  you  can." 

"Oh,"  thought  Naomi,  as  she  wandered 
through  the  house,  "I  wish  I'd  a-picked  her  goose 
for  her — I  wish  I'd  let  her  have  the  squaw's  bead 
mat  when  she  was  so  set  on  it — and  now  she's 
gone,  and  I  shall  have  to  sleep  all  alone  in  our 
bed." 

Her  father  sat  in  the  kitchen,  his  large  horny 
hands  spread  out  on  his  knees  (the  veins  very 
blue)  and  his  back  bent  almost  as  double  as  the 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  105 

great-grandfather  of  the  Pouncets.     Naomi  went 

close  to  him,  but  he  did  not  see  her;  she  courtesied 

until  her  calico  brushed  his  knee,  but  he  took  no 

notice;  and  at  last  she  had  to  pull  his  sleeve. 

Then  he  drew  her  down  on  his  lap,  and  patted  her 

back. 

"Father,  Elizy  wan't  a  very  good  girl,  but  she 

was  so  troubled " 

"How  do  you  mean  she  wan't  a  good  girl  ?" 
"Why,  she  sulked  so,  and  drawed  such  a  long 

face ;  but  she  was  so  unhappy,  father,  you  might 

forgive  her." 

"I  forgive  her  all  her  sulks,  my  dear." 
"Oh,  father,  when  will  she  come  back?" 
"Who   can  tell,   my   dear?     If  she  comes,   I 

daoubt  it'll  be  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  as  she  went 

away." 

"Oh,  father,  don't  speak  so,  and  make  it  all  so 

black !"  cried  poor  Naomi. 

Her   father,   instead  of  replying,   slowly  and 

painfully  straightened  his  bent  back,  and  slowly 


106  Alpheus  and  Maryette 

drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket.  He  held  it 
up  before  her. 

"Stand  up,  Naomye.  Toe  that  board  in  the 
floor.  Hold  up  your  head,  and  pull  your  frock 
straight." 

She  did  so,  with  wondering  looks. 

"Naow  take  this  paper  in  your  hands.  Naow 
look  me  in  the  eyes. — No,  you  hain't  to  read  the 
paper.  You're  to  say  some  words  after  me. 

"I  promise — say  it  slow,  very  slow — never  to 
forget  this  eighteenth  day  of  May  in  the  year 
eighty-three.  If  ever  I'm  in  danger  of  forgetting 
to  be  a  good  girl — say  that " 

"  'Forgetting  to  be  a  good  girl,' "  repeated 
Naomi  clearly. 

"I  promise  to  think  of  this  paper  I  hold  in  my 
hand,  and  remember  I  was  forbidden  to  read  it; 
and  to  think  why." 

"  'To  think  why,'  "  repeated  Naomi,  who  had 
been  brought  up  to  unquestioning  obedience. 

"That's   all,"    concluded   Mr.    Polke    heavily. 


Alpheus  and  Maryette  107 

"But  don't  forget  your  prayers,  and  your  text, 
'Thou  God  seest  me,'  that  your  mother  made  all 
you  childern  larn,  as  soon  as  you  was  able  to 
speak." 

While  Naomi  was  taking  this  vow,  her  fugi 
tive  sister,  in  a  dark  little  parlour  in  Tempe,  was 
being  made  Mrs.  Frederick  Dukes.  Eliza  was 
very  happy.  Yet  some  misgivings  crossed  her 
mind.  Once  she  thought,  "This  is  my  father's 
mare,  not  my  husband's — /  purvided  the  mare  for 
us  to  flee  away  on" ;  and  again,  as  the  Presbyterian 
minister's  door  closed  behind  them,  she  thought : 

"Where  will  our  home  be?  Shall  I  be  a  rov 
ing  woman  without  a  home?" 


CHAPTER   VIII 
(Satewags  of  tbe  BncbanteC*  Country 

Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew. 


W 


HERE  be  you  with  that  nutmeg,   Na- 


omye  ?' 


Marm  Patridge  stood  in  the  tiny  square  entry, 
calling  upstairs.  It  was  two  years  since  that 
Black  Saturday  which  had  closed  the  doors  of 
Naomi's  little-girlhood  behind  her.  Only  a  faint 
shadow  had  been  left  on  her  face  of  those  wake 
ful  nights  when  she  had  lain  awake  and  wept  to 
think : 

"I  might  have  carded  Lizy's  wool — I  might 
have  done  her  dipping  for  her — but  it's  too  late 
now !" 

Marm  stood  calling : 

"Naomye!  Naomye!  Has  the  child  fell  in  a 
fit?" 

But  now  a  faint  tinkle  reached  her  dull  ears. 

108 


The  Enchanted  Country          109 

It  came  from  the  living-room  where  the  new 
spinet  stood,  and  sounded  the  jigging  tune  of 
"Weevily  Wheat." 

"Naomye  Polke,  you're  at  that  instrument 
again,  air  you?  Fetch  me  that  nutmeg  this  in 
stant  to  the  kitchin !" 

"Yes,  Marm."  Naomi  slowly  shut  the  spinet- 
lid — the  gate  to  the  enchanting  moonshine 
country.  She  looked  back  more  longingly  than 
Lot's  wife.  Naomi  Polke  might  appear  very 
staid  and  stiff  in  her  flat-breasted  calico,  but  be 
hind  that  buskboard  beat  a  heart  that  loved  sweet 
music,  poetry,  and  all  enchantments.  She  had 
not  long  been  grating  the  nutmeg  into  Marm's 
batter,  when  she  began  to  sing,  to  a  monotonous 
no-tune  of  her  own,  some  odd  verses  of  an  old 
ballad  which  she  had  picked  up  by  heart  from  old 
Mr.  Pouncet 

"The  Percy  out  of  Northumberland, 

A  vow  to  God  made  he, 
That  he  would  hunt  on  the  mountains 
Of  Cheviot  within  days  three " 


1 1  o         The  Enchanted  Country 

"Naomye!" 

"What  say,  Marm?" 

"Have  you  darned  up  that  hole  in  my 
mantilly  ?" 

"No,  Marm — but  I  will  after  supper,  certain." 
She  began  to  beat  the  eggs  again,  and  the  fairy 
trumpeters  whom  Marm  had  driven  away  began 
to  creep  back,  and  to  sound  their  silver  marches 
through  the  kitchen 

"They  were  twenty  hundred  spearmen  bold 

Withouten  any  fail; 

They  were  born  along  by  the  water  of  Tweed, 
In  the  bounds  of  Teviotdale " 

"Naomye!" 

"What  say,  Marm?" 

"You  hain't  tried  aout  that  lard,  I  don't  be 
lieve!" 

"Oh,  my  wig!  no,  I  hain't!"  replied  Naomi  in 
consternation,  while  all  the  gates  of  the  enchanted 
country  swung  to  behind  her  for  that  morning. 

But  when  she  had  an  errand  down  the  south,  or 
up  the  north,  turnpike,  she  could  wander  un- 


The  Enchanted  Country         1 1 1 

molested  along  the  shoulder  of  Red  Mountain, 
looking  down  between  the  pine  and  maple  trunks 
to  where  the  Branch  roared  along  its  narrow  bed. 
Or  she  might  follow  a  blaze  of  her  own  to  the 
tiny  pool  in  the  Hollow,  where  the  dead  leaves 
lay  heaped  in  a  drift  on  the  water;  or  she  might 
lie  on  her  back  on  Fox  Cobble  in  the  sunshine,  her 
bonnet  over  her  eyes;  swelling  with  great 
thoughts,  or  feeling  fairy  presences.  Then  there 
was  no  one  to  call  out  sharply,  with  a  twitch  of 
her  sleeve : 

"Come  down  out  of  the  clouds,  Naomye!" 
Her  father  often  shook  his  .head  over  this 
daughter;  but  not  as  he  had  shaken  it  over  Eliza. 
Mr.  Polke  had  a  way  of  musing  aloud  as  he  sat 
resting  in  the  slack  of  the  afternoon,  over  his 
own  life,  and  over  the  characters  and  prospects 
of  his  children. 

"Saul's  all  his  mother's  child,  ventur'some  but 
stiddy — he  has  a  barrel  of  good  sense  in  his  in 
nards.  He'll  be  a  good  brother  to  Naomye. 


H2         The  Enchanted  Country 

Thar  was  Josiph  .  .  .  thar  was  Charles  .  .  . 
they  was  all  good  fellows  but  one — all  but  one; 
and  he's  paid  the  forfeit.  One  of  my  boys  and 
one  of  my  girls — wal,  let  her  be  forgotten  .  .  . 
but  I  can't  forgit  her 

"Naomye's  more  like  my  sisters.  Their  frocks 
was  always  hangin'  off  one  shoulder,  and  their 
hair'd  blow  into  their  eyes.  Naomye  takes  after 
my  side  of  the  family.  I  hear  her  singin'  like  a 
mooner  at  times.  Her  mother's  folks  was  all 
more  worldly-wise,  and  up-and-comin'.  But  her 
freckles  she  gets  from  her  mother's  side,  poor 
little  maouse.  .  Her  freckles  air  liable  to  injure 
her  prospects  in  life,  I'm  afeared.  I  daoubt  if  she 
could  wash  'em  off  with  lemon  juice.  If  her 
mother  was  alive,  she'd  put  a  stop  to  the  child's 
runnin'  out  bareheaded;  but  Harm's  too  old  to 
think  of  such  things  in  a  young  spinster,  im 
portant  as  they  be — important  as  they  be,"  re 
peated  Mr.  Polke  to  himself,  shaking  his  beard. 

"Naomye  Polke  moonsh  a  great  deal  for  one 


The  Enchanted  Coiintry         113 

sho  young,"  was  Marm  Patridge's  opinion.  "She 
should  be  at  her  wheel,  gitting  her  shettin-aout  of 
linen;  or  elshe  a-trimmin'  up  her  bunnit  or  her 
blue  gownd.  She  hash  a  kind  of  an  old-timey 
look.  She  ought  to  keep  up  with  the  fashionsh 
better.  To  be  sure  they  do  change  very  often. 
When  I  wash  a  girl  one  fashion  would  lasht  one 
lifetime.  But  naowadaysh  they  change  every 
ten  or  fifteen  yearsh.  That  mantilly  of  her 
grandmother  Patridgesh',  that  Naomye  wearsh 
to  church,  ish  all  aout  of  fashion !  'Twash  made 
forty  or  fifty  yearsh  ago !" 

"Naomye  doosn't  care  about  the  fashions,"  ob 
served  Budsey,  who  was  greasing  his  boots  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"Don't  care  about  the  fashionsh,  hey?" 
"No,  Marm — she  doosn't  care.  She  gits  up 
into  the  garret  with  the  old  folio,  and  gits  a  shawl 
kind  of  draped  around  her,  and  a  turkey-tail  fan 
for  a  sword,  and  p'tends  she's  Caesar,  and  calls 
aout: 


H4         The  Enchanted  Country 

"  'The  Ides  of  March  have  come! ' 

and  then  she  claps  her  hand  to  her  side,  and 
tumbles  over  on  the  feedbox,  and  sprawls  there 
a-panting  as  if  somebody  had  hit  her  a  terrible 
whack." 

"Play-actin' !" 

"Or  else  she'll  tie  a  nightcap  round  her  head, 
wrong  side  foremost,  and  be  a  duke :  or  else  she 
climbs  up  the  chimney  and  says  it's  the  Tower  of 
London:  or  else  she  puts  on  my  pantaloons  and 
says » 

"Pantaloonsh !"  shrieked  Marm  in  horror. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  says  she's  Rosalind  in  the  Forest 
of  Arden." 

"I  don't  shee  why  a  darter  of  aour  housh 
should  behave  sho,"  said  Marm  plaintively. 
"Flavy  don't  do  sho.  Debbe  Darby  don't;  nor 
none  of  the  Byjamsh." 

"They  hain't  none  of  'em  smart  enough  to  do 
so,"  cried  Budsey  loyally.  "It  takes  some  wit." 

Flavia  at  that  very  moment  was  listening  coldly 


The  Enchanted  Country          115 

while  Naomi  repeated  to  her  the  darling  ballad  of 
the  "Nut-Brown  Maid,"  which  she  had  found  in 
an  old  Gazette  in  the  woodhouse  chamber;  stop 
ping  from  time  to  time  to  cry,  "Haint  that  a  hand 
some  line!"  or  "What  a  sweet  creeter  she  was — 
don't  you  think  so,  Flavy?"  to  all  which  Flavia 
would  only  reply: 

"Well  enough,  but  I  don't  see  a  great  deal  of 
sense  to  it." 

"Don't  you  see  what  they  meant  by  their 
speeches  to  one  another?" 

"No,  I  can't  see  what  they  meant,  unless  they 
meant  to  spin  out  the  piece  as  long  as  they  could." 

Naomi  sighed,  and  leaned  her  head  heavily 
against  the  pear-tree.  It  was  plain  that  Flavia 
did  not  care  a  great  deal  about  the  moonshine 
country.  It  was  of  no  use  trying  to  drag  her 
through  the  poetry  gate. 

"You  don't  care  for  these  things,  do  you, 
Flavia?"  she  asked.  "I  think  you're  changed  in 
that  respect.  It  seems  more  than  two  years  ago 


1 1 6         The  Enchanted  Country 

that  you  and  I  read  that  tale  of  Alpheus  and 
Maryette." 

"And  you'll  be  seventeen  in  November." 

"You'll  be  eighteen  in  April." 

"Un-hunh. — That  tale  of  Alpheus  and  Mary 
ette  was  pretty  silly." 

"Silly!"  cried  Naomi,  her  bright  flush  over- 
flooding  her  freckles. 

"Why,  yes,  Naomye — don't  you  call  it 
so?" 

"Call  a  tale  of  true  love  silly,  hey?  The  next 
thing  you'll  be  calling  the  Bible  silly." 

"Hush,  Naomye — you're  almost  swearing." 

"I'd  almost  as  lief  you  would  call  the  Bible 
names!"  cried  Naomi  indignantly. 

"You  hain't  outgrowed  novils  and  such  truck, 
you  see,  Naomye.  I've  got  beyond  'em,"  said 
Flavia  calmly. 

"Beyond  'em!     Oh,  Flavia!" 

"You  better  be  filling  up  your  chest  with  pillow 
cases,"  continued  Flavia.  "You  better  be  laming 


The  Enchanted  Country         i  i  7 

yourself  new  recipes,  than  these  long-winded 
ballats.  What  kind  of  a  husband  do  you  think  '11 
be  pleased  with  you  if  you  don't  larn  anything 
useful?" 

"I  guess  my  cupcakes  air  pretty  nigh  as  good 
as  yours  be,  Mistress  Flavia  Lucy!  Marm  Pat- 
ridge's  goin'  to  have  me  bake  a  batch  of  'em  for 
the  Fair !"  cried  Naomi. 

"Cup-cakes  air  very  well;  but  your  raised 
breads  hain't  all  they  should  be,"  said  Flavia. 

"Mistress  Paouncet  said  I  scalloped  my  night 
caps  full  as  fine  as  her  Hester !" 

"Wai — but  Marm  has  to  make  Budsey's  Sab 
bath  shirts  because  you  hain't  able  to  set  up  the 
bosoms,"  returned  Flavia  judicially. 

Naomi,  almost  crying,  muttered,  "I  shall  larn 
in  time." 

"Certain  you  will,  Naomye,  if  you  put  the  hull 
of  your  mind  to  it.  But  that  seems  a  very  hard 
thing  for  you  to  do.  Your  head's  most  always 
in  the  clouds." 


CHAPTER  IX 
jflavfa  ©begs  "bet  flfcotber 

That  which  is  tender  layeth  hold  on  that  which  is  near 
est  unto  it,  and  groweth  with  it,  and  becometh  like  it. 

IV  DISTRESS  LUCY  was  a  hopelessly  shift- 
•!-"-*•  less  woman  in  all  regards  but  one.  Her 
cupboards  were  overflowing  with  crockery,  books, 
clothes,  and  old  family  relics,  all  jumbled  to 
gether.  On  her  pantry  shelves  her  gold  wedding 
bracelets  might  be  found  in  the  teapot,  where  they 
were  steeped  more  than  once  in  the  tea :  large 
pieces  of  cheese  mouldered  away  in  the  warming- 
pan  ;  the  curtains  were  torn,  the  barn-door  off  its 
hinges,  the  leaves  were  never  raked  off  the  grass, 
but  the  little  pigs  rooted  among  them  for  nuts, 
and  the  hens  laid  their  eggs  in  the  broken  founda 
tions.  Mistress  Lucy  meanwhile  was  beginning 
elaborate  embroideries,  never  to  be  finished,  or 
making  "cut-work"  out  of  paper,  to  lumber  the 

118 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        1 1 9 

rickety  living-room  table  still  further.  A  fine 
landscape  hung  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  reek  and 
smoke,  and  the  rats  which  rolled  apples  across  the 
kitchen  floor  in  broad  daylight  had  even  nibbled 
a  hole  in  it,  while  the  mistress  of  the  house  sat 
drawing  new  patterns  for  nightcaps.  Flavia  had 
certainly  not  inherited  her  practical  capability 
from  her  mother.  Only  in  one  thing  was  Mis 
tress  Lucy  forehanded, — only  at  one  task  did  she 
persevere  until  it  was  accomplished, — and  that 
was  her  determination  to  have  her  elder  daugh 
ter  married  before  her  younger. 

Flavia  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty-one 
practically  unsought.  Tall,  refined,  and  gentle, 
with  a  painful  bashfulness  in  company,  her 
"countenance,"  though  it  had  not  beauty,  was 
called  "pleasing,"  and  her  "ways,"  though  neither 
animated  nor  charming,  were  commended  by  her 
elders  for  being  "modest."  From  time  to  time 
she  had  an  incipient  admirer  or  two,  but  she 
always  discouraged  them  by  her  bashful  silence 


I2O        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

and  evident  longing  to  have  them  go  away.  She 
tried  conscientiously  to  "sparkle,"  as  her  mother 
wished;  but  the  result  was  sadder  than  before. 
In  addition  to  her  natural  shyness,  Flavia  was 
placed  in  the  most  trying  of  situations  for  an 
awkward,  neglected  girl.  She  was  a  natural  foil 
for  her  sister  Cassandra.  The  thin  child  who 
had  once  slept  in  the  sap-kettle  was  growing  up, 
and  daily  growing  more  charming.  While  bash 
ful  Flavia  timidly  repulsed  her  partners  at  a 
dance,  and  sent  them  looking  for  other  girls, 
Cassandra  had  only  to  glance,  and,  like  bees  to  a 
flower,  the  boys  flocked  about  her. 

Mistress  Lucy  thus  saw  her  elder  child  passing 
the  heyday  of  her  young  womanhood  unmarried 
and  un-beau'd,  and  like  Mistress  Darby  and 
Marm  Patridge  at  a  later  date — like  many 
mothers  and  aunts  of  that  time,  she  decided  to 
venture  on  that  path  where  angels  would  fear  to 
tread,  and  to  choose  a  husband  herself  for  Flavia. 

Naomi  saw,  in  church  one  evening,  a  tall  sandy 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        121 

man,  whom  she  only  knew  by  the  name  of  Mr. 
Snodgrass  of  Westminster.  He  was  intently 
looking  at  her  friend  across  the  aisle.  "Well," 
said  Naomi  to  herself,  "I  guess  Mr.  Snodgrass  '11 
know  Flavy  the  next  time  he  sees  her."  He  was 
singing  toward  her  now,  with  his  clear  tenor  voice. 
After  service  he  waited  and  offered  her  his  arm. 
Naomi  wondered  if  her  friend's  day  had  come, 
to  take  ship  for  that  fabled  shore  where  people 
dwelt  who  were  in  love  ?  She  wondered  if  Flavia 
felt  as  Maryette  did  on  the  fortieth  page,  where 
she  met  Alpheus  in  the  forest  ? 

On  the  next  Sunday  afternoon  she  met  her 
friend  out  walking  with  Mr.  Snodgrass  toward 
the  graveyard,  that  constant  haunt  of  Beartown 
lovers.  Flavia  was  hanging  on  her  escort's  arm ; 
her  face  was  downcast.  As  Naomi  passed  them, 
Flavia  blushed;  but  the  colour  did  not  distract 
Naomi  from  noticing  the  timid  look,  not  of  hap 
piness,  in  her  eyes.  Naomi  lay  awake  for  a  little 
while  that  night,  wondering  and  troubled. 


122        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

She  and  Flavia  had  never  rallied  each  other 
about  beaux.  They  were  too  sincere  and  literal 
in  their  natures,  as  well  as  too  ladylike,  to  do  so. 
Again  and  again,  in  the  days  that  followed, 
Naomi  thought  she  could  direct  the  conversation 
to  Mr.  Snodgrass ;  but  though  it  often  veered  in 
that  direction,  it  quickly  blew  away  again,  as  if 
Flavia  herself  were  on  the  defensive.  However, 
Flavia  went  on  quietly  tatting  all  the  time,  with 
out  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids.  She  worked  to  such 
good  advantage  that  she  was  able  to  announce  be 
fore  long : 

"Here's  most  enough  tattin'  for  my  twelve 
longshorts." 

Naomi  was  startled,  for  she  had  not  supposed 
the  affair  was  so  far  advanced  as  "longshorts." 

"Flavy,  I  had  you  on  my  mind  last  night  again. 
I've  laid  awake  a-many  nights  on  your  account 
this  fall." 

"You're  a  curious  creature,  Naomye." 

"Yes,  I  be  a  curious  creature,  I  guess,  but  that 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        123 

hain't  to  the  point.  I  want  you  should  let  me 
ask  you  a  question,  and  give  me  a  true-blue 
answer." 

Flavia  trembled  a  little,  she  knew  not  why. 

"Wai." 

"Cross  your  heart,  then." 

"I  cross  my  heart  to  speak  you  true, 
You  may  cut  it  out  unless  I  do," 

recited  Flavia,  like  a  good  child. 

"Wai,  this  is  the  question.  Was  you  .  .  .  oh, 
I  can't  say  it,  I  don't  believe.  Let  me  whisper  it 
to  you.  Was  you  happy  last  Sabbath  afternoon 
when  you  walked  in  the  graveyard?" 

Flavia  looked  away.  She  was  obliged  to 
pause  before  she  could  frame  her  answer.  Na 
omi  leaned  toward  her,  and  pressed  the  question, 
home. 

"Remember  Maryette  in  the  forest!  Did  you 
know  where  you  was  stepping?  Did  you  see  me 
at  the  church  door?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Naomye." 


124        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Flavy,  when  you  look 
so  hard  at  Budsey's  bonfire  over  thar !" 

"Wai,  Naomye,  I  hain't  at  all  wwhappy." 

"You  hain't  at  all  happy,  Flavia!" 

"I  guess  I'm  happy  enough." 

"No,  you  hain't  happy  at  all." 

Flavia  stared  past  Naomi,  with  a  passive 
face. 

"Flavia,  you  must  stop  your  longshorts  and  all 
your  sewin'.  You  must  tell  your  mother  how 
you  feel.  You  must  tell  Mr.  Snodgrass.  You 
do  very  wrong  to  deceive  him." 

"I  don't  deceive  him,  Naomye.  He  knows  how 
it  is  with  me." 

"And  is  he  willin'  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  a  wicked  man,  then !" 

"Hush,  Naomye.     How  can  you  speak  so?" 

"I  say  he's  a  bad,  wicked  man." 

"Hush — hush!  You  frighten  me,  Naomye. 
It  hain't  maidenly  to  speak  so." 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        125 

"I  want  to  frighten  you,  Flavia  Lucy,  before 
it's  too  late  to  save  ye !" 

"It's  too  late,  as  you  call  it,  already.  We've 
promised  one  another." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  it  can't  be  too  late!  when  did 
you  promise?" 

"A-Saturday  night." 

"Oh,  what  a  wicked  woman  I  be,  that  I  didn't 
speak  before!  I  was  very  fain  to  speak  to  you 
a-Friday  night  to  singing-school;  but  I  was 
scared;  my  mind  misgave  me.  I'll  never  forgive 
myself  for  this !" 

"Poor  Naomye ! — hush,  you  silly.  You  needn't 
to  fret,  nor  think  you  could  'a'  had  it  different. 
My  mind  has  be'n  made  up  a  long  while,  and  I 
was  sure  of  what  I  should  do." 

"Oh,  Flavy,  I'm  sore  afraid  for  you.  You'll 
repent  you  when  it's  too  late.  Think  of  it  naow, 
before  the  words  air  said  between  you — oh,  think 
wrhat  you  might  feel,  and  what  you  do !" 

"You  needn't  to  fret,  Naomye,  and  shake  your 


126        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

hair  all  down  into  your  eyes.  Mr.  Snodgrass  is 
a  good  man,  and  one  I  respect.  A  good  purvider 
too.  He's  very  kind  and  pleasant  with  me.  I 
couldn't  wish  him  different." 

Naomi  shivered  a  little.  She  felt  chilled  to  the 
marrow  of  her  bones. 

"You  silly  Naomye,  I  guess  I  know  what 
you're  thinking  of.  You're  thinking  of  the  olden 
time  when  you  and  I  was  little  girls,  and  when  we 
used  to  spend  hull  afternoons  lookin'  over  our 
pretty  beads,  and  buildin'  castles " 

"Yes!  I  think  of  those  days,  and  wish  they'd 
come  back  to  us." 

"But  they  can't.     They're  gone  for  ever." 

"They  come  back  to  me,"  replied  Naomi  with 
kindling  eyes.  "If  you  want  'em,  they'll  come 
back.  Oh,  it's  pleasant,  when  you're  all  alone, 
and  those  old  fancies  come  twinkling  through 
your  mind — what  if  they  hain't  ever  to  come 
true? — but  I  believe  they  will,  some  day — wal, 
p'haps  not  in  this  lifetime.  I  want  you  should 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        127 

have  such  fancies,  Flavia,  for  they're  as  sweet 
now  as  ever  they  was,  and  they  warm  the  cockles 
of  your  heart,  and  will  for  ever!" 

For  one  moment,  while  Naomi  was  speaking, 
her  friend's  glance  responded  as  if  she  under 
stood;  and  then  it  relapsed  into  passive  in 
credulity.  After  a  little  pause,  Flavia  replied : 

"You  mean  well  by  me,  Naomye,  coming  and 
trying  to  frighten  me  out  of  my  promise.  But  I 
only  see  that  we  hain't  at  all  alike,  though  we  was 
brought  up  in  the  same  community.  P'haps  I'm 
more  settled  by  nature  than  you  be.  You  want  I 
should  take  pattern  by  you — I  think  you'd  do  well 
to  take  pattern  by  me: — what  do  you  think  o'  that, 
hey  ?  If  you  had  a  husband,  naow,  you  wouldn't 
be  troubled  by  these  curious  thoughts  you  tell  of. 
You  say  they  hain't  a  trouble  to  ye.  Wai,  p'haps 
they  hain't;  but  I  should  be  troubled  and  vexed 
by  'em.  My  path's  so  plain,  I  can't  but  follow  it. 
It  pleases  father  and  mother — it  pleases  Mr. 
Snodgrass  full  well." 


128        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

"Don't  think  of  them,  my  dear — think  of. Fla 
via  Lucy !" 

"Why,  Naomye,  it  pleases  me  very  well  too." 
"I'm  sore  afraid  for  you,"  said  Naomi  once 
more.     She  rose  to  go;  but  before  leaving,  she 
put  her  arm  round  her  friend's  neck,  and  whis 
pered  in  her  ear : 

"Will  you  pray  over  it,  Flavy?  this  one  night?" 
"Why,  I  pray  over  it  every  night!"  replied 
Flavia.  Her  tone  was  serious  and  sincere.  Na 
omi  went  home  much  perplexed.  "For  with 
stammering  lips  and  another  tongue  will  I  speak 
to  this  people."  This  strange  verse  came  into 
her  mind  and  perplexed  her  yet  more.  Certainly 
Flavia  was  honest,  she  was  sincere;  how  then 
could  her  conscience  tell  her  false?  Naomi  was 
frowning  and  sullen  all  that  evening.  When  such 
a  question  as  this  was  fermenting  in  her  mind,  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  spoken  to.  At  bedtime  she 
took  the  large  Bible  upstairs  with  her,  and  read 
late  by  the  light  of  the  candle.  She  read  first  in 


Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother        129 

the  Gospels  and  Epistles,  but  they  seemed  to  be 
speaking  to  some  one  else,  and  not  to  her.  At 
length  she  opened  to  the  old  Prophets,  and  read 
their  more  mysterious  and  poetical  pages ;  read  of 
the  doom  of  nations  and  mighty  kings,  the  terrible 
and  long-drawn  vengeance  of  the  Almighty  as 
foreseen  with  mortal  eyes.  She  was  calmed  with 
a  sense  of  the  greatness  of  her  God,  but  her  ach 
ing  sense  of  Flavia's  mistake  was  in  no  wise 
relieved.  She  sat  frowning  over  the  great  book. 
"I  eenamost  think,"  she  said  aloud  to  the  rats  and 
mice  sitting  up  on  their  haunches  in  the  dark 
corners  of  the  garret,  "that  the  Bible's  got  noth 
ing  to  say  to  me  about  Flavy's  case.  Oh !"  Her 
eyes  had  fallen  on  these  verses — 

"For  as  the  heaven  is  high  above  the  earth,  so 
are  my  ways  higher  than  your  ways,  and  my 
thoughts  than  your  thoughts.  .  .  .  Instead  of  the 
thorn  shall  come  up  the  fir  tree;  and  instead  of 
the  briar  shall  come  up  the  myrtle  tree." 

When  Naomi  read  these  words,  a  light  dawned 


1 30        Flavia  Obeys  Her  Mother 

on  her  soul;  she  humbled  her  own  standards, 
laughed  at  her  fears  for  Flavia,  and  felt  once 
more  that  settled  ease  of  heart  which  was  tem 
peramentally  hers.  The  Almighty's  ways  with 
Flavia  were  not  her  ways — not  human  ways  at 
all,  perhaps. 

"How  ridiculous  I  be,  and  what  a  figure  I  cut, 
to  be  thinking  I  must  labour  with  Flavy  to  pre 
vent  this  thing!  It's  curious — it's  strange,  that 
she  should  bring  herself  to  do  it ;  but  as  she  says, 
we  hain't  all  alike.  Mr.  Snodgrass,  she  says,  is 
willing.  I  don't  think  much  of  him  for  that.  But 
everything  isn't  to  be  done  according  to  my  idees, 
the  Good  Book  says.  'Instead  of  the  thorn  shall 
come  up  the  fir  tree,  and  instead  of  the  briar  shall 
come  up  the  myrtle  tree.'  That's  a  curious  thing 
for  the  Book  to  say;  for  I've  always  heared  that 
the  myrtle's  the  flower  of  love! 

"But  I'm  glad  it  hain't  Budsey  Polke  that's 
doing  this  thing  that  Flavia  Lucy's  doing.  I 
daoubt  if  I  should  be  so  easily  reconciled  to  it  in 
Budsey's  case !" 


CHAPTER  X 
fjonours  and  Emoluments 

TJETWEEN  huskings  and  parings,  sugarings 
•*-'  and  barn-warmings,  and  sings  and  spells, 
Beartown  was  becoming  a  very  gay  place  to  live 
in.  Naomi's  best  blue  dress  was  in  requisition  as 
often  as  twice  a  week.  But  she  was  seldom  or 
never  a  belle  at  these  parties,  which  were  apt  to 
end  (if  they  did  not  begin)  with  dancing.  She 
and  Flavia  had  always  been  too  shy  to  throw 
about  those  saucy  glances,  or  to  toss  their  heads 
and  turn  away,  drawing  a  young  man  after  them 
by  the  eyelash,  as  they  saw  other  girls  doing. 
The  light,  bright,  frivolous  "You  and  I"  talk 
would  not  come  trippingly  from  their  tongues. 
They  were  accustomed  to  sit,  thoughtful  and 
grave,  on  the  edge  of  the  dancers'  world — some 
times  beating  time  with  their  red  wooden  heels  to 
131 


132        Honours  and  Emoluments 

the  fiddles,  or  clapping  the  best  of  the  spread- 
eagles  and  pigeon-wings. 

This  was  all  very  well  so  long  as  Naomi  had 
a  companion  wall  flower.  But  when  Flavia 
married  Mr.  Snodgrass  and  went  to  Jamaica  to 
live,  it  was  rather  forlorn  to  sit  alone  in  a  corner, 
while  Isabella  By  jam  or  Fanny  Pouncet  whirled 
by  in  the  squashvine,  light  as  the  seeds  of  a 
dandelion.  Their  flying  skirts  brushed  Naomi's 
knees,  and  seemed  to  waft  airs  of  another  world 
about  her.  She  might  forget  it  to-morrow,  as 
she  herded  the  turkeys  through  the  painted  aisles 
of  the  Red  Woods, — or  even  to-night,  when  she 
awoke  and  heard  the  thunder,  and  the  uprooted 
trees  crashing  over  into  the  Branch;  but  who  in 
her  young  years  can  help  winking  back  a  tear  or 
two,  as  she  sits  lonely  in  the  midst  of  pleasure  ? 

"I  guess,  Marm,"  said  Naomi  on  one  of  the 
mornings  after,  "I  wun't  go  to  the  next  party  the 
By  jams  have." 

Marm  pursed  up  her  thousand-wrinkled  face 


Honours  and  Emoluments        133 

and  looked  at  the  whites  of  Naomi's  eyes.     She 

asked  anxiously: 

"What   ailsh   you,    child?      Ish   your   tongue 

coated?     Air  you  feverish?" 

"Oh,  no,  Marm — my  head's  as  cool  as  a  cheese. 

But  I  guess  I'm  getting  too  old  for  these  parties." 
"Too  old,  hey?     Why,  haow  old  be  you?" 
"I'm  'most  twenty-two,"  said  Naomi  sadly. 
"Twenty-two,  hey?     Have  any  of  your  teeth 

fell  aout?      Air  you  bald?      Do   your  jointsh 

crack?" 

Naomi  smiled  a  little  wanly. 

"A  young  maid  hain't  an  old  maid  a  minute 

before  she'sh  twenty-five,"  said  Marm  Patridge 

firmly.    "She'sh  in  her  prime  at  your  age.    Don't 

let  me  hear  any  more  of  thish  nonshensh." 
"Wai — but  I  never  have  any  partners." 
"Wun't  your  brother  dansh  with  ye  ?" 
"Yes — but  he's  gen'ally  the  only  one." 
Marm  cocked  her  head  on  one  side  in  deep 

thought  for  a  few  moments ;  then  she  rose  on  her 


134        Honours  and  Emoluments 

groaning  joints  and  beckoned  Naomi  to  follow 
her,  saying: 

"I  guesh  I  know  what'll  fetch  ye  a  few  part- 
nersh." 

Marm  had  a  cedar  chest  in  the  garret  where 
she  kept  all  her  fineries  of  long  ago.  Out  of  this 
she  now  fished  a  pair  of  rainbow  stockings,  a  blue 
sash  with  knotted  fringe,  and  a  monstrous  comb 
topped  with  a  silver  bird.  She  gave  them  all  to 
Naomi,  and  watched  with  delight  the  unquench 
able  vanity  leap  up  and  shine  in  her  great-niece's 
deep  eyes. 

"Wai !  did  thoshe  dudsh  do  ye  any  good,  hey?" 
inquired  Marm  as  Naomi  came  down  the  ladder 
on  the  morning  after  the  Pouncets'  large  sugar 
ing  party,  where  she  had  worn  the  rainbow  stock 
ings,  the  sash,  and  the  comb. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  three  or  four  partners,"  replied 
Naomi  quite  happily. 

"Good  enough — who  wash  they?" 

"Budsey  once;  and  then  I  sat  out  a  spell  of 


Honours  and  Emoluments        135 

three  or  four  dances :  and  then  I  had  a  whirligig 
squashvine  with  Bill  Byjam,  and  then  I  sat  out  a 
few  more ;  and  then  I  had  a  Hi-Betty  with  Mace 
Paouncet." 

"Good  enough — and  who  set  by  ye  at  supper?" 

"Mr.  Tibbald  set  one  side,  and  Emily  Byjam 
t'other." 

"Wan't  there  boysh  enough  to  go  round?" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  there  was  seven  or  eight  of  'em 
together  as  near  as  they  could  get  to  Fan  Paoun 
cet  and  little  Cassie  Lucy." 

"Wash  that  little  one  there  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Marm,  and  danced  every  dance,  and 
split  some  of  'em  in  two." 

When  Naomi  had  gone  to  bake  the  breakfast 
cakes,  her  father  said  to  Marm : 

"It's  uphill  work,  tryin'  to  have  Naomye  cut  a 
figure  at  these  doin's.  She  hain't  one  to  shine 
before  the  fiddles.  She's  had  that  spinster  look 
about  her  ever  since  she  was  born,  poor  little 
maouse!  And  then  her  freckles " 


136        Honours  and  Emoluments 

"Shucksh,  I  tell  ye!  What  air  frecklesh? 
What'sh  red  hair?  It  hain't  beauty — it'sh 
the  beckoning  eye  that  bringsh  a  girl  part- 
nersh." 

"You  can't  make  a  sparkler  aout  of  poor  little 
Naomye,"  repeated  Mr.  Polke  pensively. 

"Wai,  I  shall  do  my  besht  .for  the  child.  My 
head'sh  full  of  plansh  about  her.  I  intend  she 
shall  get  the  blue  ribbon  for  her  cupcakesh  to  the 
Valley  Fair,  too,"  said  Mann  firmly.  "I  mean 
she  shall  amount  to  shomething." 

In  pursuance  of  this  design,  Marm  made 
Naomi  practise  the  cupcakes  twice  a  week  all 
summer  long.  By  the  month  of  the  Fair  Naomi 
could  place  the  puffed-over  top  exactly  in  the 
middle  of  each  cake,  and  could  fringe  the  edges 
deftly  with  fine  slices  of  citron.  She  would  un 
doubtedly  have  taken  the  blue  ribbon  had  not 
Emily  Byjam  sent  a  dozen  cupcakes  as  good  as 
hers,  with  a  stick  of  cinnamon  on  each  represent 
ing  a  cannon,  with  clove  seeds  heaped  in  front  for 


Honours  and  Emoluments        137 

cannon    balls — which    deservedly    captured    the 
prize. 

"Don't  you  care,  Naomye,"  said  her  father. 
"Yours  air  twice  as  pretty,  with  all  that  grass  on 
'em.  Emily  By  jam's  a  year  or  two  older  than 
you  be,  and  her  uncle's  wife's  sister  was  one  of 
the  judges.  I  can't  see  anything  pretty  in  can 
nons  on  a  cake/'  continued  Mr.  Polke.  "The 
cannons  on  the  wrong  side  have  winned  in  this 
country."  He  began  to  sing  the  old  loyalist  song, 
"Hunting  Shirts  and  Rifle  Guns,"  coming  out 
very  strong  on  the  last  verse 

"Then  Congress,  and  every  such  damn'd  inquisition, 
Be  fed  with  hot  sulphur  from  Lucifer's  kitchen! 
With  their  hunting  shirts  and  rifle  guns." 

"Naomye'sh  a-going  to  have  that  blue  ribbon 
next  year,"  said  Marm. 

"She'd  have  winned  it  this  year,"  said  Budsey, 
"if  Emily  Byjam  hadn't  fetched  a  pie  to  the 
judges  for  their  dinner." 

But  before  the  Valley  Fair  again  came  round, 


138        Honours  and  Emoluments 

another  honour  had  befallen  Naomi,  which  caused 
the  blue  ribbon  to  sing  very  small.  Mr.  Green- 
piece,  calling  one  day  with  his  last  and  best 
funeral  gloves  on,  presented  her  with  a  triangular 
brown  box  and  well-thumbed  blank  book; 
and  pronounced  as  she  took  them  (with 
her  best  "retiring"  courtesy)  the  following 
speech : 

"In  consideration  of  your  superior  mind  and 
respectable  character,  Mrs.  Naomye,  you  have 
been  chosen  Mite  Collector  of  the  Dorcas  Society 
for  the  ensuing  year." 

Forgotten  now  were  the  lanterns  and  fiddles, 
the  billowing  skirts  of  Fanny  and  Isabella  in  the 
Dutchman's  Bridal! 

When  the  Fair  again  came  round,  Naomi's  cup 
cakes  took  the  blue  ribbon,  and  premium  of  a 
dollar  and  a  half.  Now  she  could  say  with  the 
Psalmist : 

"Gilead  is  mine,  and  Manassas  is  mine !" 

She  was  retained  in  the  responsible  position  of 


Honours  and  Emoluments        139 

Mite  Collector  for  two  years,  and  resigned  it  only 
to  become  President  of  the  Dorcases. 

When  Mrs.  Naomye  went  now  to  dances,  she 
held  her  head  as  high  and  higher  than  the  frivo 
lous  creatures  who  pranced  about  her.  And  if 
sometimes  she  felt  a  small  pang,  and  thought : 

"I  wish  I  had  a  Beau  for  once:  " 

she  forgot  it  next  moment  when  Budsey 
whirled  by  with  Fan  Pouncet  or  Cass  Lucy  on  his 
arm.  To  Budsey's  vain  sister,  all  the  other  boys 
in  Beartown  were  as  stars  in  his  sunshine,  or 
moths  round  his  candle.  "How  handsome," 
thought  Naomi,  "Budsey  doos  look  in  that  tab 
bied  wescat!  and  I  certainly  admire  to  see  his 
hair  tufted  out  so  behind  his  ears !" 


CHAPTER  XI 
Gbe  prouD  Summer 


f  I  AHE  empire  of  Isabella  Byjam  and  Fanny 
-*-  Pouncet  began  to  fall,  as  little  Cassandra 
Lucy  grew  up.  The  thin,  almost  scrawny  child 
was  now  a  tall,  pretty  thing  of  seventeen.  She 
was  not  really  so  handsome  as  Isabella  or  Fanny  ; 
—  not  very  much  prettier,  in  feature  alone,  than 
Flavia  had  been.  Too  angular  as  yet,  with  a 
head  shaped  by  nature  for  any  fashion  but  this 
of  straining  the  hair  back  and  gumming  it  into  a 
mountain  of  bands,  coils,  and  ornaments  —  Cas 
sandra  Lucy  was,  in  her  rare  dull  moments, 
almost  plain  looking.  But  her  face  lighted  so 
quickly  and  so  brightly,  on  the  smallest  occasions, 
that  it  almost  seemed  to  bloom  before  one's  eyes, 
like  a  flower  opening  wider.  She  had  that 
peculiar  bright  vividness  which  excels  beauty.  It 

was  not  brightness  of  colour,  but  brightness  of 
140 


The  Proud  Summer  Begins       141 

look — a  shining  look  which  no  one  could  describe. 
Her  eyes  indeed  were  windows  illuminated  from 
within.  Perhaps  the  secret  was  that  Cassandra 
loved  companions  as  other  persons  love  music  and 
flowers.  Certain  it  is,  that  under  the  iridescent 
veil  of  her  magnetism  her  character  was  little 
seen.  She  was  flighty  and  impulsive  to  the  point 
of  insincerity;  very  mercurial  and  irresponsible. 
In  short,  her  nature  was  a  shallow  though  an  in 
nocent  one.  But  her  manners,  so  animated,  warm 
and  debonair,  her  irresistible  sweet  laughter,  and 
cloudless  good  nature,  captivated  the  judgment; 
and  in  the  end,  like  many  another  woman,  she 
rose  to  the  opinion  of  those  who  loved  her  best 
and  most  blindly. 

Such  a  character  was  that  "Cass  Lucy"  of 
whom  veiled  remarks  began  to  be  made  behind 
Naomi's  back  in  the  winter  of  1791,  the  year  of 
Vermont's  statehood. 

"Budsey  Polke  has  painted  up  his  father's  old 
sleigh." 


142       The  Proud  Summer  Begins 

"Poor  Naomye — she's  such  a  fond  sister,  she'll 
take  it  very  hard." 

"It'll  be  like  losing  an  eyetooth." 

Naomi's  eyes  were  opened  at  a  certain  spelling 
match  in  April,  when  Budsey  was  one  of  the 
captains.  How  long  she  was  to  remember 
that  evening!  Budsey  won  first  choice  by 
the  penny,  and  Mr.  Tibbald,  the  schoolmaster, 
who  was  invariably  the  first  one  chosen, 
was  half  rising  to  go  to  Budsey's  side,  the 
banner  of  victory  already  flying  in  his  wan 
countenance,  when  Budsey  from  the  platform 
announced : 

"I  choose  Cassandra  Lucy!" 

Spelling  matches  were  taken  in  earnest  in  Bear- 
town,  and  the  choice  of  a  poor  speller  like  Cass 
before  Mr.  Tibbald  was  snatched  up,  caused  looks 
of  astonishment,  and  even  a  few  faint  titters. 
These  gatherings  were  usually  the  triumph  of  the 
neglected  but  studious  girls,  and  wholesome  re 
minders  to  the  others  that  turn  about  is  fair  play. 


The  Proud  Summer  Begins       143 

Cass  walked  with  a  pretty  manner  to  her  place  be 
side  her  captain. 

"Cass  '11  be  able  to  set  down  and  rest  her  very 
soon,"  whispered  the  young  people.  She  sat 
down  at  the  very  first  word  that  was  given  her. 
It  was  "festival,"  and  she  spelled  it  as  follows : 

"F-e-s,  fes,  there's  your  fes;  t-y,  ty,  there's 
your  ty,  festy;  v-a-1,  val,  there's  your  val; 
festival." 

Naomi  looked  away  in  pity.  What  was  her 
surprise  to  hear  the  doomed  one  cheerfully 
adding: 

"I  guess  in  the  books  they  spell  it  with  two  1's. 
Bill  Byjam,  you  needn't  to  laugh.  I  can  spell 
very  pretty  if  I  have  the  right  words  handed  to 
me." 

"Mistress  Lucy,  you're  spelt  daown.  Will  you 
please  to  be  seated?" 

"I'll  thank  you  for  the  Boston  rocker,  then, 
William  Byjam.  If  I'm  the  first  one  to  set  down, 
I'll  take  my  choice  o'  the  chairs."  She  sank  with 


144       The  Proud  Summer  Begins 

a  beautiful  courtesy  into  the  chair  which  the  op 
posing  captain  set  out  for  her. 

"A  curious  maid  is  Cass  Lucy,"  thought 
Naomi.  "Here  she's  put  to  shame  before  us  all, 
and  she  carries  it  off  as  if  she'd  spelt  everybody 
down.  Budsey's  larnt  a  lesson — he  wun't  choose 
her  again.  I  could  have  told  him  how  she  stands 
as  a  speller,  if  he'd  asked  me." 

"Why,  the  sides  hain't  even!"  cried  one  of 
Budsey's  spellers.  "Mace  Paouncet,  what  you 
doin'  on  Bill  Byjam's  side?  You  was  'lected  by 
Budse'." 

"Bill  Byjam  'lected  me,  by  a  rabbit !"  cried  fat 
Mace  Pouncet. 

"'Twas  Budse'  Polke,  I  tell  ye!" 

"I  tell  ye  it  wan't!" 

Those  who  had  been  spelt  down  now  began  to 
urge  the  captains  to  choose  all  over  again.  Na 
omi  urged  it  too,  thinking  that  her  brother's  side 
would  be  stronger  by  one  at  least.  At  length  the 
captains  agreed  to  it,  and  the  choosing  began 


The  Proud  Summer  Begins       145 

afresh.  The  penny  was  tossed  up — Saul  Polke 
won  again. 

"I  choose  Cassandra  Lucy!" 

All  was  plain  now.  Naomi  looked  at  Budsey, 
then  at  Cass,  and  mingled  feelings  crossed  her 
mind.  First  she  thought,  "It's  come  to  pass — 
my  brother's  in  love."  Then  she  thought,  "Cass 
is  pretty — she's  pretty  and  sprightly,  but  she 
hain't  quite  good  enough  for  my  brother  Bud 
sey."  Then  she  thought,  "I  feel  a  year  or  two 
older  than  I  did  when  I  put  on  this  plum-coloured 
petticoat." 

While  she  was  thus  musing,  William  Byjam 
called  out : 

"Come  down  out  of  the  clouds,  Mrs.  Naomye! 
Your  name's  been  throwed  at  ye  twice.  Can't 
spare  such  a  speller  as  you  be !" 

Naomi  took  her  place  next  Mr.  Tibbald,  near 
the  head  of  her  line.  She  spelled  readily  all  the 
words  that  came  to  her;  but  her  thoughts  would 
go  off  wandering  far  into  her  brother's  future, 


146       The  Proud  Summer  Begins 

and  her  eyes  were  often  fixed  on  Cassandra  Lucy 
until  all  was  darkness  round  that  bright  face. 
This  absent,  intent  expression  which  she  wore  be 
came  her  well.  Sometimes  she  smiled;  some 
times  her  eyes  brimmed  for  a  moment.  Some 
times  her  breast  rose  high  beneath  her  buskboard, 
when  her  young  brother  spared  her  a  look. 

A  tiny,  cold,  damp  thing  like  the  nose  of  a  very 
small  puppy  was  pushed  into  her  hand.  She 
started,  and  let  it  fall — a  little  red  comfit — on  the 
floor.  Whence  had  it  come?  Fat  Mace  Pouncet 
had  his  back  turned  toward  her,  and  was  waving 
a  peacock  fan  over  Debbe  Darby — it  was  not  he 
whose  offering  she  had  spilt.  Mr.  Tibbald 
towered  like  a  mast  on  the  other  side,  his  tail- 
buttons  almost  on  a  level  with  her  shoulders.  She 
stole  a  quick  glance  at  him — was  he  blushing? 

Naomi  heard  a  titter  from  the  opposing  ranks. 
Elbows  nudged  ribs  all  down  the  line;  and  she 
caught  a  wise  glance  from  Isabella  By  jam. 

Now  she  was  wide  awake — her  dreams  were 


The  Proud  Summer  Begins       147 

scattered.  Her  ready  blush  rose  in  a  flood  as  she 
felt  the  battery  of  laughing  eyes  all  turned  on  her 
and  the  bashful  schoolmaster.  She  fidgeted  and 
closed  and  unclosed  her  fingers,  looked  up,  then 
down,  and  heard  with  gratitude  the  new  word 
called  out  by  Budsey : 

"Prestidigitation." 

The  next  caraway  that  was  laid  in  her  palm 
she  did  not  drop,  but  softly  murmured  thanks  for 
it.  And  then  they  followed  fast — the  green,  the 
red,  and  the  white  caraways,  as  many  as  she  could 
devour.  When  she  whispered : 

"Thanky," 

Mr.  Tibbald  would  answer  low : 

"Welcome." 

And  when  an  uproar  arose  about  Mace  Poun- 
cet,  who  would  not  sit  down  on  account  of  a  diph 
thong,  Mr.  Tibbald  took  advantage  of  it  to  stoop 
down  from  his  tall  height,  and  to  murmur : 

"Your  shawl's  very  pretty  for  spring  wear, 
Mrs.  Naomye." 


148      The  Proud  Summer  Begins 

Naomi  courtesied,  with  a  glance  at  Debbe  and 
Isabella  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"And  I  like,"  continued  Mr.  Tibbald,  "your 
hair  drawed  back  so  from  your  brows." 

Whence  came  these  involuntary  tossings  of 
Naomi's  head,  these  bridlings  and  tiltings?  In 
all  her  modest  youth  she  had  not  behaved  so  be 
fore.  Now  a  sprite  that  had  dwelt  unsuspected 
in  some  deep  cavern  of  her  nature — a  peacock 
trait — came  to  light.  She  fluttered  her  fan,  cast 
down  her  eyes,  and  turned  her  cheek  over  her 
shoulder,  well  aware  that  many  were  looking  at 
her  and  Mr.  Tibbald. 

Budsey  and  Cass  were  forgotten.  The  tubs  of 
snow  brought  from  the  cave  in  the  Hollow  were 
trundled  out,  the  low  benches  set  about  them.  A 
crowd  of  half-grown-up  boys  and  girls  hung 
about  the  kettle,  "trying"  the  boiling  sap  until  it 
was  ready  to  candy.  When  at  last  it  was  poured 
on  the  snow,  fragrant  as  ambrosia,  how  gallantly 
Mr.  Tibbald  forked  up  the  sweet  candy  for  Mrs. 


The  Proud  Summer  Begins       149 

Naomi!  He  beat  off  the  encroaching  forks  of 
Debbe  Darby's  beau  on  one  side,  and  Fanny 
Pouncet's  on  the  other.  He  chose  Mrs.  Naomi 
into  the  ring  in  the  romping  games  of  "Ruth  and 
Jacob"  and  "King  William  Was." 

It  was  very  fine,  Naomi  found,  to  be  some  one's 
lady,  and  to  know  that  she  should  have  an  escort 
home  other  than  kind  Captain  Lucy  and  his  wife. 
Though  Mr.  Tibbald  said  nothing  about  it,  Na 
omi  knew  that  he  would  walk  home  with  her,  and 
every  one  else  knew  it.  "What  a  fine  young  lady 
I  be !"  thought  Naomi.  "I  was  the  queen  of  the 
spell."  She  had  hardly  pinned  her  shawl  to 
gether  when  Mr.  Tibbald  was  there,  offering  his 
arm.  Perhaps  his  thoughts  were  of  a  different 
sort  from  hers.  When  they  were  out  of  range  of 
the  lanterns,  he  pointed  to  the  stars,  which  were 
as  bright  and  thick  as  in  August. 

"On  such  a  night  as  this,"  he  began  to  recite  in 
the  excellent  deep  voice  which  issued  from  his 
lean  throat  as  from  a  trumpet : 


150      The  Proud  Summer  Begins 

"Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew; 
On  such  a  night, 

Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls; 
.    .   .   On  such  a  night 
Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hands, 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage!  " 

Naomi's  breast  heaved,  for  she  had  never 
heard  words  so  beautifully  spoken. 

"O  let  me  larn  to  speak  that  piece  as  you  do !" 
she  cried. 

Her  escort  taught  it  to  her  word  for  word. 
What  a  strange  evening  this  was!  how  like  an 
other  woman  she  felt,  as  she  walked  hanging  on 
Mr.  Tibbald's  arm!  Budsey  and  Cass  passed 
them,  and  threw  back  a  glance  or  two.  Naomi 
had  never  been  so  much  "agog"  before;  and  yet 
what  tiny  smart  was  this  in  her  breast?  What 
cold  voice  in  her  ear,  bidding  her  beware  the 
primrose  path  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 
from  flbarm  anD  flfcrs.  Darbp 
T  breakfast  the  next  morning  Marm  said : 


A"  breal 
"I 


hear  you  catched  a  beau  at  the  doin'sh, 
Naomye." 

Yesterday  Naomi  might  have  replied  to  this 
question  only  by  an  uncomfortable  little  grin ;  but 
to-day  in  her  new-found  pride  she  answered 
coldly : 

"Catching  a  beau  is  work  I  never  learned  to 
do,  Marm  Patridge." 

"Oh,  wal,  shomebody  fetched  ye  hum,  didn't 
they?" 

"Yes,  Marm." 

"Who  wash  it,  hey?     Billy  Byjam?" 

"No,  Marm." 

Marm  looked  shrewdly  at  Naomi's  red  cheeks. 

"Did  that  Hen  Tibbald  git  up  courage  enough 

to  shee  you  hum  ?" 

151 


152  Advice  from  Marrn  and  Mrs.  Darby 

"Yes,  Marm." 

"Oh!" 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  beaux  that  day; 
and  Naomi,  with  her  proud  thoughts  all  to  her 
self,  finished  her  work  and  retrimmed  her  Sabbath 
bonnet. 

When  Sunday  evening  came,  Marm  casually 
inquired : 

"Your  beau  comin'  round  to-night,  Naomye?" 

"My  which,  Marm  Patridge?" 

"Your  beau,  Hen  Tibbald." 

"I  didn't  know  as  I  had  any  beau  Mister  Tib- 
bald." 

"Oh,  wal!  Air  you  expectin'  company  to 
night?" 

"No,  Marm,  I  hain't!" 

"What  you  got  on  thoshe  green  ear-ringsh  for, 
then— hey?" 

Mr.  Tibbald  came  to  call  on  that  evening. 

He  came  on  many  an  evening  after  that,  and 
faces  ceased  to  leap  into  the  windows  of  houses 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby    153 

along  the  road  when  his  semi-clerical  coat-tails 
passed.  It  was  soon  well  known  as  far  as  Ja 
maica  and  even  Tempe,  that  Mrs.  Naomi  Polke, 
that  settled  person,  had  a  beau.  She  became 
about  four  times  prettier,  and  six  times  more  im 
portant,  in  everybody's  estimation.  She  was 
really  prettier  to  look  at,  for  Marm  now  fished 
out,  without  reserve,  all  the  dainties  of  her  cedar 
chest — the  lace  cape,  the  English  fan,  the  wax 
roses,  and  the  beaded  pocket.  She  would  climb 
the  ladder,  groaning,  on  a  Wednesday  or  a  Sun 
day  afternoon,  and  pinch  and  pat  Naomi's  dress, 
to  make  it  "set"  better,  putting  a  pin  here  and  a 
pin  there,  until  a  new  neatness  and  snugness  was 
achieved  in  the  old  blue  basque.  Sometimes  she 
even  tweaked  the  red-chestnut  hair  into  curl  with 
the  hot  scissors,  while  she  advised  her  victim  to 
suffer  all  these  things  in  patience. 

"I  knowed  of  a  woman  older  than  you  be," 
Marm  would  say,  "that  up  and  buyed  hershelf  (or 
it  wash  given  to  her)  a  comb  with  three  cherriesh 


154  Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

on  top  of  it,  and  she  wash  married  to  a  widower 
within  a  year!" 

The  best  thing  about  Mr.  Tibbald  was  the 
abundance  of  poetry  which  he  knew.  Most  of  it, 
to  be  sure,  was  of  a  serious  cast,  but  he  recited  it 
well,  and  Naomi  loved  to  hear  him.  As  the  fine 
lines  of  Dryden  or  of  Pope  unrolled,  the  gate  to 
the  enchanted  lands  flew  open  again  on  its  scarcely 
rusted  hinges,  and  the  very  trees  seemed  to  dance 
;n  the  woods. 

In  all  this,  it  is  true,  there  was  something  very 
much  amiss,  and  an  inward  voice  remonstrating, 
to  which  she  tried  in  .vain  to  turn  a  deaf  ear. 
Sometimes  when  Mr.  Tibbald  would  persist  in 
talking  of  himself  and  herself,  in  a  voice  deeper 
than  ordinary,  with  long  pauses,  she  saw  plainly 
enough  that  she  was  playing  with  something 
much  too  good  for  her  to  touch.  Once  when  he 
found  her  paring  apples,  he  made  so  bold  as  to 
take  the  pan  out  of  her  hands.,  and  to  remind  her 
that  she  had  "company  to  entertain." 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby   155 

"What  shall  I  do  to  entertain  my  company?" 
Naomi  asked. 

"You  may  talk,  if  you  please." 

"Couldn't  you  tell  me  some  more  of  that  Be 
linda  piece?" 

"W-wal,  I'd  sooner  hear  your  voice,  Mrs. 
Naomye." 

"What  would  I  talk  about?" 

"W-wal,  you  might  talk  about  me." 

"What  would  I  say?" 

"You  might  say — you  might  say  I  was  a  some 
what  larned  man." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  could  say  that,  certain!  That's 
very  true  indeed." 

"You  might  say  whether  I  was  an  important 
man  in  the  community." 

"Oh,  you  certainly  air  that !  You're  very  large 
potatoes  in  the  town." 

But  she  did  not  think  of  saying,  as  Mr.  Tibbald 
had  hoped  in  the  secret  depths  of  his  bosom,  that 
he  was  a  handsome  man,  or  a  reckless  rider. 


156   Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

And  still  she  tried  to  muffle  the  reproaches  of 
the  honest  woman  in  her  heart,  with  the  old 
excuse : 

"How  can  I  tell  Mr.  Tibbald  that  I  don't  love 
him,  before  he  asks  me?" 

It  sounded  very  maidenly,  and  was  really  a 
puzzling  question. 

Thus  the  golden  days  slipped  along,  and  each 
cast  its  faint  shade  of  change  over  Naomi's  coun 
tenance,  covering  its  plain,  transparent  look  with  a 
fine,  bright  veil  of  satisfied  vanity.  Only  a  shrewd 
observer  could  have  seen,  at  first,  the  speck  of 
trouble  in  the  lowest  depths  of  her  eyes.  Its 
shadow  was  no  larger  than  the  point  of  a  pin  in 
the  early  summer;  but  every  time  that  any  one 
spoke  to  her  of  Mr.  Tibbald,  the  trouble  expanded 
over  her  face,  and  made  two  deep  perpendicular 
wrinkles  in  her  forehead. 

Mr.  Polke,  who  had  grown  much  older  to  look 
at  than  Marm  Patridge,  and  who  sat  all  day  wait 
ing  as  it  were  to  get  back  to  his  bed,  took  but  little 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby   157 

notice  of  the  affairs  of  his  children.  Since  that 
overwhelming  day  when  the  news  of  the  end  of 
the  war  had  come,  and  every  window  in  Bear- 
town  was  hung  with  black,  Mr.  Polke  neither 
played  on  his  old  flute,  nor  sang  "King  Hancock 
Sat,"  or  "Hunting  Shirts  and  Rifle  Guns,"  or 
any  other  of  the  old  Loyalist  songs.  He  no 
longer  cared  to  see  Budsey  do  the  sword-exercise. 
Sometimes  he  still  talked  to  himself,  when  he  was 
alone,  about  the  characters  and  prospects  of  his 
children,  but  in  these  musings  he  now  often  in 
cluded  Charles,  Joseph  and  Abigail,  his  married 
children,  and  all  the  little  ones  who  had  died  in 
childhood.  Then  he  would  pull  himself  up  with 
a  start,  and  begin  again,  and  again  forget  which 
children  were  married,  and  which  had  died. 

Marm  took  her  work,  and  double-barrelled 
spectacles,  and  sat  down  by  him  one  afternoon, 
to  discuss  Naomi's  affair. 

"What  do  you  think,  Richard,  of  thish  beau  of 
Naomye'sh?" 


158   Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

"Naomye — the  little  one — has  she  got  a  beau, 
hey?"  inquired  Mr.  Polke,  turning  round  slowly 
from  his  blind  contemplation  of  the  cornfields. 

"Hash  she!  wal,  I  guesh.  A  good  match  for 
the  child.  It'sh  that  Henry  Tibbald,  nevew." 

"Oh — Tibbald?  I've  seen  her  setting  on  the 
bench  under  the  popple  tree  with  some  young 
man  or  another.  Tibbald,  hey?  Why,  he's  too 
old  for  the  little  maouse,  hain't  he?" 

"Why,  no,  Richard — he'sh  a  very  shootable 
age." 

"Haow  can  you  say  so,  Marm  ?  he's  older  than 
I  be.  He  was  the  host  of  the  Bridle  when  I  was 
a  young  man." 

"Why,  Richard,  man  alive,  that  wash  the  father 
— that  wan't  thish  young  Henry!" 

"Oh,  the  father,  was  it?  Wal,  wal!  Time 
flies,  however  we  may  think  it  creeps  from  day  to 
day." 

"Wal,  Richard,  what  would  you  think  of  thish 
young  Henry  for  Naomye,  hey?" 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby   159 

"I  don't  know  the  young  man,  Marm.  I  hope 
he's  a  good  loyalist,  and  hain't  afeared  of  work, 
and  's  in  his  place  in  the  church  on  Sabbath  morn 
ings.  Doos  the  little  maouse  take  a  shine  to  him, 
do  you  think,  Marm?" 

"She'll  do  ash  she'sh  told,  I  hope!" 

"Why,  Marm,  she  better  choose  of  her  own 
free  will.  Her  mother  and  I  did  so.  I  can  leave 
the  child  a  roof  over  her  head — she's  no  need  to 
wed  for  a  home.  I've  had  it  in  mind  a  long  while 
to  bequeath  her  poor  Sarey's  place  on  the  north 
turnpike,  that  she  had  from  her  father.  You  can 
tell  her  that.  Marm,  and  then  she'll  feel  free  to 
choose  this  Tibbald  or  no — though  he  seems  to 
me  a  long  sight  too  old  for  her,"  concluded  Mr. 
Polke,  relapsing  into  his  absent  gaze  over  the 
cornfields,  and  merging  Henry  Tibbald  again  into 
his  father,  the  host  of  the  old  Bridle  Tavern. 

"I  shan't  tell  the  child  of  that  housh  on  the 
north  turnpike,"  said  Marm  to  herself.  "She'sh 
too  backward  for  her  own  good  ash  it  ish." 


1 60  Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

To  herself  Marm  might  speak  so ;  but  in  a  mo 
ment  of  family  pride  she  mentioned  to  her  niece 
Mrs.  Darby  that  Naomi  had  no  need  to  marry  un 
less  she  chose — she  had  a  father  who  could  pro 
vide  for  her.  Mrs.  Darby  said  that  she  should 
keep  any  such  bee  as  that  out  of  Naomi's  bonnet, 
if  she  were  looking  after  the  child.  She  added : 

"I  shall  give  her  very  different  counsel  if  she 
comes  to  me,  you  may  be  sure,  Marm." 

She  made  an  opportunity  to  do  so,  on  the  next 
day  when  Naomi  went  to  see  Pleiades. 

William  French  would  not  have  known  his  in 
tended  if  he  could  have  seen  her  now.  Pleiades 
Darby  was  a  confirmed  cataleptic.  She  sat  or 
stood  for  hours  perfectly  motionless,  with  her 
large  eyes  wide  open — an  uncounted  martyr  of 
the  Revolution.  The  Beartown  children  ran  past 
the  tollgate  house  with  fearful  looks  backward, 
and  told  ghoulish  stories  of  the  poor  woman  in 
side.  But  on  this  day  Naomi  found  her  asleep, 
and  Mrs.  Darby  appropriated  the  call. 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby   1 6 1 

"Why  don't  you  fetch  your  beau,"  she  in 
quired,  "to  visit  your  aunt  and  cousins?" 

Naomi  said  nothing,  but  fanned  herself  and  let 
her  aunt's  question  fill  the  room  with  its  echoes. 

"You're  going  to  buy  you  a  new  bunnit,  your 
Marm  says." 

"Oh,  yis,  Aunt,  a  blue  one,  I  think,  to  go  with 
my  muslin." 

"I  s'pose  she  wants  it  for  you  to  appear  out 
in?" 

The  perpendicular  wrinkles  began  to  show  in 
Naomi's  forehead. 

"No,  Marm,  no  such  a  thing,"  she  replied. 

"That's  pretty  talk,  when  you're  keepin'  com 
pany  as  fast  as  you  can  with  Henry  Tibbald." 

"I  bid  ye  good-day,  Aunt  Darby." 

"Set  still,  Saucebox.  7  wun't  ask  ye  no  ques 
tions — I  know  enough  already.  I  guess  you  can 
hark  to  the  only  aunt  you've  got  on  Bald 
Mountin'.  You  was  always  a  curious  young  one, 
singing  sams  to  yourself,  and  forgetting  what 


1 62   Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

you'd  gone  for,  and  who'd  sent  ye.  /  recomember 
when  you  went  to  church  with  one  white  and  one 
red  stockin'  on.  I  recomember  what  you  did  at 
Hester  Paouncet's  weddin'  too,  when  you  flyed 
off  daown  cellar  to  fetch  some  more  cider — 
drawed  a  gallon  of  vinegar  and  served  it  to  half 
the  company  before  you  was  ketched  at  it.  And 
it's  just  so  with  you  naow.  Here's  a  stiddy 
young  man,  that  would  make  ye  a  good  husband 
— but  no!  You've  had  a  dream,  or  seen  a 
maouse,  or  read  a  verse  in  the  Bible,  that's  turned 
ye  against  him.  Your  father's  sisters  did  so,  two 
of  'em,  Eliza  and  Louisa.  They  never  had  but 
the  one  chance  apiece." 

Naomi  never  had  a  worse  faceburn  than  during 
this  speech.  Her  cheeks  grew  hotter  and  hotter 
until  they  were  almost  purple  under  the  scourge. 
Her  aunt,  however,  paused  at  last,  and  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  said : 

"But  naow  I've  done  my  duty  by  ye,  I  shall  say 
no  more.  You'll  do  as  you  please,  I  s'pose.  I've 


Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby   163 

got  girls  of  my  own,  and  enough  to  think  of 
about  'em. — No,  Pleiades  hain't  any  better.  I 
did  think  yesterday  she  showed  a  little  more  life. 
I  thought  I  heared  her  cluckin'  to  the  chickens. — 
No,  Debbe  hain't  to  home.  I  send  her  aout  all 
I  can." 

"Has  Debbe  begun  her  new  Sabbath  dress?" 
asked  Naomi,  whose  cheeks  were  cooling  off  now. 

"She's  got  it  basted  together.  I  don't  like  this 
new  fashion  for  the  sleeves.  Flowin'  sleeves 
they  call  'em,  and  they  dip  in  your  tea  and  sauce 
every  time  you  come  to  the  board." 

"It  sounds  like  a  pretty  fashion,"  said  Naomi. 

"Pretty  enough.     The  old  was  full  as  pretty." 

Naomi  thought  seriously  enough  of  her  future 
as  she  walked  home  from  the  tollgate  that  after 
noon.  What  if  she  never  told  Henry  Tibbald 
how  it  was  with  her?  On  that  side,  her  elders 
said,  stretched  the  broad  highway  of  comfort  and 
pleasure,  and  on  the  other  a  narrow  path  of  briers. 
But  as  she  turned  in  between  the  poplars,  she  saw 


164  Advice  from  Marm  and  Mrs.  Darby 

Budsey  and  Cass  walking  across  fields  to  the 
Hollow,  holding  hands;  and  suddenly  she  felt 
very  old,  and  very  worldly-wise.  She  laid  her 
head  down  on  top  of  the  gate  post,  and  cried  for 
a  long  time. 

She  was  crying  there  when  Marm  Patridge 
threw  open  the  door  and  called  out  in  a  dreadful 
voice : 

"Come  in  here,  Naomye!  Your  father'sh  fell 
in  a  fit  on  the  floor — he'sh  turning  blue,  and  hish 
eyesh  have  rolled  back  in  hish  head  !u 


M 


CHAPTER  XIII 
Driving  to  THJlestmineter 
R.  POLKE  lay  on  his  bed,  breathing  hard, 


for  a  week  and  a  day.  Naomi  could  not 
look  at  him  without  weeping;  and  even  Budsey, 
whose  nerves  were  strong,  turned  away  from  that 
dreadful  sight.  Mr.  Polke's  eyes  were  rolled 
back  until  only  the  whites  of  them  showed.  His 
legs  and  arms  were  rigid,  his  poor  choked  throat 
displayed  its  swollen  veins  above  his  open  shirt. 
The  old  doctor  from  Westminster  met  the  Bear- 
town  doctor  at  his  bedside.  They  bled  him ;  con 
cocted  plasters  and  poultices ;  bled  him  again ;  and 
gave  him  strong  cherry  bounce ;  and  bled  him  yet 
once  more.  The  swollen  veins  relaxed,  and  Na 
omi  blessed  the  doctors,  and  looked  on  hopefully 
while  they  cupped  the  very  life-blood  from  her 
father's  heart.  He  grew  fainter,  weaker,  peace- 
fuller,  until  his  eyelids  fluttered  down  over  his 
165 


1 66          Driving  to  Westminster 

dreadful  white  eyes ;  and  then  he  drew  a  few  slow 
breaths,  with  long  pauses  between;  and  three 
times  they  thought  that  he  had  ceased  to  breathe. 
And  then  he  did  cease;  and  in  a  moment,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  that  stillness  fell  over  the 
house  behind  the  poplars  which  had  not  fallen 
over  it  since  Naomi  was  nine  years  old. 

How  small  now  looked  her  former  troubles 
and  perplexities  to  her!  They  dwindled  away 
into  midges.  She  forgot  Mr.  Tibbald,  and  his 
calls,  and  Marm's  worrying  advice,  and  her 
aunt  Darby's.  When  the  moonlight  was  creep 
ing  from  rafter  to  rafter  across  the  garret,  the 
reproach  of  many  generations  awoke  in  her 
heart : 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had  been  kinder  to  father!  I 
might  have  mended  him  better — I  might  have 
taken  a  thousand  more  stitches  for  him — but  it's 
too  late  now !" 

Marm  herself  was  very  sad,  but  she  grieved 
more  for  Naomi  when  she  saw  the  bloom  being 


Driving  to  Westminster          167 

washed  out  of  her  eyes,  and  the  self-reproachful 
droop  of  her  mouth.  She  noted  with  consterna 
tion  the  long  silences  in  Mr.  Tibbald's  calls,  when 
Naomi  sat  with  her  glance  averted,  and  her 
fingers  absently  playing.  A  new  bonnet,  Marm 
thought,  would  be  a  good  remedy,  perhaps  the 
best,  for  these  sad  looks.  Her  close  black  one 
should  be  discarded  after  four  weeks,  Marm  said, 
and  she  should  have  a  silvery  poke  with  a  white 
flower. 

Naomi  clung  to  the  close  black  bonnet,  but 
Marm  was  very  firm.  She  might  wear  her  black 
dress  all  summer,  if  she  chose.  But  the  black 
bonnet  was  too  sad,  too  aged  and  forlorn.  "It 
makesh  her  more  backward  than  ever,"  said 
Marm.  "If  I  do  my  duty  by  Richard  Polke,  now 
he'sh  dead  and  gone,  I  shall  buy  a  new  bunnit 
for  hish  darter.  Young  men  have  roving  eyesh, 
and  Henry  Tibbald  may  be  looking  away  from 
our  Naomye,  if  we  don't  shee  to  it." 

Naomi  was  wandering  up  the  Branch  one  after- 


1 68          Driving  to  Westminster 

noon,  at  about  the  hour  when  the  wood-insects  all 
come  out  and  dance  and  whirl  in  the  air.  It  was 
a  favourite  hour  to  Naomi,  and  she  felt,  for  the 
first  time  since  her  sorrow,  a  faint  call  from  the 
pleasures  of  life.  They  called  her  as  if  from  far 
away.  Their  voice  was  sweet  in  the  ears  of 
healthy  youth,  and  comforting  to  youth's  poign 
ant  loneliness.  They  called  faintly  from  the 
recesses  of  the  woods : 

"You'll  be  happy  again! — you'll  be  happy 
again ! — you'll  see !" 

"How  can  I  be  happy,  when  I'm  so  lonely  for 
father?" 

The  voices  called  in  a  twittering  tone: 

"Life  is  sweet!  short  and  sweet!" 

"Oh,  no!"  thought  Naomi.  "Life  isn't  short 
at  all.  I  shall  live  to  be  an  old  woman ;  and  never 
see  father  till  I  die." 

But  the  twittering  went  on,  and  the  insects 
danced  in  the  level  rays,  as  the  sun  "drew  water" 
over  Red  Mountain's  brow.  Nature's  kind  nurs- 


Driving  to  Westminster          169 

ing  was  easing  Naomi's  first  sorrow,  despite  the 
tears  which  dropped  on  the  tall  ferns  where  she 
walked. 

While  she  was  walking  along,  and  hearing 
youth's  voices  call  her  from  invisible  distances, 
Marm  Patridge  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen  crook 
ing  unwonted  fingers  round  a  pen.  She  was 
writing  to  Mrs.  Nabby  Waterford  in  Grant  17  of 
Jamaica  township,  setting  a  day  for  Mrs.  Nabby 
to  come  and  take  her  young  sister  to  Westminster 
and  buy  her  a  new  bonnet. 

"Ye  child  has  No  Taiste  in  Sch  matters,"  wrote  Marm, 
"&  yett  as  I  toald  you  tis  Import1**  She  shd  have  ye 
Bunnet.  Doe  like  a  good  Sistr  come  a-Satterday  morngr 
&  fetch  ye  child  down  to  Wminster  &  as  you  Drive  along 
you  can  speak  a  word  or  2  in  season  to  ye  child  She  is  too 
Backard  by  far." 

On  the  Saturday  like  a  good  sister  Mrs.  Nabby 
came,  and  Naomi  was  pushed  into  the  old  yellow 
buckboard  to  go  a-bonneting.  Nabby  Waterford 
had  left  off  her  own  mourning,  and  was  wearing 
again  the  gay,  if  unfashionable,  large  bonnet  and 


170         Driving  to  Westminster 

greenish  brown  mantilla  which,  with  care,  had 
lasted  her  these  eleven  years.  Naomi  might  have 
seen  much  more  of  this  sister  with  no  disadvan 
tage  to  herself.  Abigail  Waterford  was  a  whole 
some,  kind,  practical,  cheerful  creature,  "full  of 
wise  saws."  She  eyed  her  silent  young  sister  for 
some  time  without  saying  anything;  and  then  she 
said  with  startling  calmness : 

"This  bunnit  you  buy  to-day  wun't  do  to  be 
married  in." 

Naomi  started,  and  turned  and  stared  into  the 
sumach  bushes. 

"I  told  you  you'd  ketch  a  beau  at  one  of  these 
spellin'  matches,"  her  sister  continued. 

"Nabby!" 

"What  say?" 

"I  don't  care  to  have  you  talk  on  that 
subject." 

"Why,  Naomye,  we've  all  got  to  go  on  living, 
and  gitting  married,  when  the  time  comes,  though 
our  father  and  mother  air  both  gone.  They  did 


Driving  to  Westminster          171 

so  in  their  day ;  and  their  fathers  and  mothers  did 
so  in  their  day." 

"But  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  married, 
Nabby." 

"Why,  what's  the  trouble  with  you,  little 
sister?" 

"I  don't  know,  Nab.  I  hain't  been  very  happy 
about  Mr.  Tibbald  all  summer." 

"Why,  when  I  was  here  in  May,  I  thought  you 
seemed  very  well  pleased  with  his  visits." 

"So  I  was  pleased;  but  I  wan't  happy." 

"That  sounds  very  whimsey,"  said  Abigail, 
shaking  her  head.  "You  was  pleased;  but  you 
wan't  happy.  I  guess  you've  got  some  other 
young  man  in  your  eye,"  she  added,  taking  a  long 
look  at  her  sister.  Naomi  as  steadily  returned 
the  gaze.  There  was  no  shadow  of  any  young 
man  in  her  eyes,  unless  it  were  the  unsubstantial 
shadow  of  a  man  of  dreams  and  romances. 

The  silence  between  the  sisters  continued  for 
some  time.  They  had  reached  the  last  and 


172         Driving  to  Westminster 

steepest  waterbars.  The  spire  and  roofs  of  West 
minster,  and  its  small  dark  blue  lake,  began  to 
show  between  the  trees  ahead. 

"What  ails  you  at  little  Henry  Tibbald,  Na- 
omye?  Wai,  he  was  little  when  I  knowed  him. 
What  fault  do  you  find  in  him,  hey?" 

"I  don't  find  any  fault  with  him,  Nabby.  All 
the  fault  I  find's  with  Naomye  Polke.  She's  to 
blame.  She's  a  callous  thing — she  can't  make 
herself  care  about  him." 

"He's  a  good  upright  man,  they  all  say." 

"Oh,  yes — very  respectable." 

"He  hain't,  to  be  sure,  as  handsome  as  some," 
conceded  Mrs.  Waterford.  "He's  somewhat 
spindlin'." 

Naomi  said  nothing. 

"He's  a  timid,  narvous,  book-readin'  man — is 
that  what  ails  you  at  him?" 

Naomi  shook  her  head  impatiently,  but  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Why  could  not  Abigail  un 
derstand  ? 


Driving  to  Westminster          173 

"Hain't  he  gentle  with  ye?  Hain't  he  kind?" 
persisted  Abigail. 

"Oh,  yes — he's  kind — he's  gentle — don't  ask 
me  any  more,  Nabby,  please.  You  worrit  me — I 
can't  make  you  understand." 

"If  there  was  a  novil  or  a  romance  in  the 
haouse,  I  should  be  afeared  you'd  be'n  dip 
ping  into  it!"  cried  Abigail.  She  added  her 
favourite  proverb,  in  a  somewhat  pensive 
tone — 

"Time's  the  rider  that  breaks  youth  in." 

They  reached  Westminster,  and  the  bonnet,  a 
pretty  thing  of  grey  braids,  with  a  white  chicken 
pompon,  was  bought.  A  few  calls  made,  they  set 
out  for  home.  The  shadows  began  to  lengthen, 
the  birds  to  call  in  the  woods.  Both  sisters  were 
thinking  of  the  same  thing.  At  length  Abigail 
said  musingly : 

"Young  maids  have  curious  fancies.  I  had, 
I  recollect.  You  see,  Naomye,  we  mustn't  give 
ear  to  every  whim  that  hops  into  our  heads.  We 


174         Driving  to  Westminster 

must  larn  wisdom,  as  the  Book  says,  and  ketch 
hold  of  understanding. 

"Naow  we  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  an  old 
maid,  Naomye.  Your  father  would  have  be'n 
sorry."  She  paused,  as  she  saw  Naomi's  eyes 
quite  brim  over. 

"Poor  Marm,"  she  continued  thoughtfully. 
"She'll  grieve  a  great  deal  about  this,  if  you  carry 
out  as  you've  begun.  It  wun't  take  much,  at  her 

age "  Naomi  was  very  much  touched,  and 

stole  a  side  glance  at  her  sister;  but  she  thought 
she  saw  a  tiny  self-congratulatory  smile  play 
round  Abigail's  mouth,  and  something  shut  up 
quickly  in  her  breast.  She  almost  heard  it  click. 
Nabby  might  have  heard  it  too,  for  she  went  on 
in  a  different  strain : 

"Naow  here's  a  young  man's  picked  you  aout 
of  all  the  maids  in  Beartown.  He's  passed  by 
Emily  Byjam,  and  Isabella  Byjam,  and  Fan 
Pouncet,  to  take  up  with  you."  Naomi  could  not 
help  a  small,  pleased  smile  at  this.  "And  if  you 


Driving  to  Westminster          175 

like,  you  may  have  a  home,  and  husband,  and 
childern,  like  other  women; — everything  to  make 
life  pleasant  to  you. 

"But  if  you're  an  old  maid,  you'll  grow  very 
peppery  and  spiteful;  you'll  be  very  saving  and 
close,  likely;  you'll  be  looked  down  upon,  and  the 
childern  '11  run  after  ye  and  holler  at  ye  in  the 
streets.  You  don't  think  of  that,  'tain't  likely; 
but  it's  a  sad  life  an  old  maid  leads.  She's  no 
body  and  nothing." 

Naomi  was  studiously  looking  at  the  tumbling 
falls  of  the  Branch.  Abigail  went  on : 

"Think  of  Mr.  By  jam's  wife's  aunt — what 
kind  of  a  life  doos  she  lead,  hey?"  Naomi  did 
think  of  her,  and  conjured  up  before  her  mind's 
eye  the  bald  capless  head,  pale  sunken  eyes,  at 
tenuated  figure,  wispy  bonnet  strings  and  moth- 
eaten  shawl  of  Mr.  Byjam's  household  drudge. 
Abigail  looked,  and  saw  that  picture  in  her  young 
sister's  eyes.  She  pressed  the  contrast  home. 

"So  we  want  to  have  a  new  bunnit  for  you, 


176         Driving  to  Westminster 

little  sister,  and  to  have  you  take  your  chance  and 
be  happy.  'The  things  a  man  feared  air  often 
better  than  those  he  prayed  for.'  You  may  be 
lieve  it's  better  to  be  married  than  single,  even  if 
you  don't  feel  that  you  could  never  have  wed  any 
but  this  one.  Many  a  woman's  married  that 
way,  and  's  glad  she  did." 

"I  hope,"  said  Naomi,  "none  of  my  sisters  or 
brothers  married  that  way."  Abigail's  brown 
cheek  flushed.  Naomi  was  sorry  to  have  run  the 
risk  of  wounding  her.  She  put  her  hand  out 
timidly  toward  Abigail's.  "I  don't  think  you  did 
so,  Nabby,"  said  she.  Abigail  did  not  speak  for 
a  long  time.  At  last  she  said  with  some  con 
straint  : 

"I  wun't  purtend  to  caounsil  you  against  your 
own  judgment,  little  sister.  Do  what  you  think's 
right ;  you  wun't  be  punished  for  that." 

"Nabby,  don't  you  believe  it's  true  that  people 
fall  in  love  ?  It  must  have  happened  to  poor  Mr. 
Tibbald,  else  why  should  he  pick  me  out,  when 


Driving  to  Westminster          177 

I'm  not  half  so  pretty  as  some  on  the  moun 
tain?" 

"Wai — but  you're  a  very  good  speller." 

"The  more  I  think  and  ponder,  the  more  per 
plexed  I  be,  Nabby." 

Abigail  shook  her  head. 

"You  cultivate  these  whimseys,  I'm  afeared, 
little  sister !" 

"Hark!"  said  Naomi,  putting  her  hand  up  to 
her  ear. 

A  fine  thread  of  a  voice  which  had  once  been 
sweet  was  singing  at  Mr.  Byjam's  back  chamber 
window.  A  head  looked  out.  It  was  the  bald, 
capless  poll  of  the  old  maiden  drudge,  "Mrs." 
Maria.  The  sun  was  in  her  eyes,  but  she  was  not 
frowning  either  at  it  or  at  her  toilsome  needle,  as 
she  sang  away  cheerfully : 

"The  next  that  came  a-courtin'  was  young  Ellis  Gove: 
•  I  met  him  first  with  a  joyful  love; 

With  a  joyful  love  how  could  I  be  afraid  ? 

The  good  wine  needs  no  bush,  'tis  said. 
Timei,  timeum,  pata." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
CraMc  in  tbe  lUoo&bonsc  Chamber 

Yea,  even  mine  own  familiar  friend,  whom  I  trusted! 

OOMETIMES  in  these  days  Naomi  said  to 
*^  herself,  "Now  I  see  how  it  was  with  poor 
Flavia."  It  was  her  turn  now  to  feel  the  opinions 
of  her  family  flowing  like  a  strong  current  round 
her  feet,  and  carrying  her  down  the  stream  of 
average  conduct.  More  and  more  frail  and  in 
termittent  became  the  tiny  cords  of  instinct  and 
of  conscience  pulling  back  against  the  stream. 

And  yet  they  pulled  her  back.  Shadowy 
friends  and  helpers  were  with  her  in  the  contest. 
Alpheus  and  Maryette,  those  somewhat  wooden 
and  impossible  lovers,  were  on  her  side,  and  so 
were  those  faint  and  scarcely  remembered  dreams 
which  only  left  a  vague  glow  and  freshness  in  her 
mind  on  awaking,  like  the  thirsty  traveller's 

dream  of  a  spring.     Even  the  Bible  seemed  to  her 

178 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      179 

troubled  mind,  as  she  searched  it,  a  storehouse  of 
personal  advice  to  her.  When  St.  Paul  said : 

"Take  the  whole  armour  of  righteousness,  that 
ye  may  be  able  to  withstand  in  the  evil  day," 
Naomi  understood  that  she  was  to  fortify  her 
self  with  texts  and  perhaps  with  fasting,  in  order 
to  withstand  Nabby,  Marm,  and  the  rest  in  the 
evil  day  of  Mr.  Tibbald's  proposal ;  and  when  the 
parable  of  the  Rich  Young  Man  closed  with 
the  remark : 

"And  he  went  away  sorrowful,  because  he  had 
get  possessions,"  Naomi  said  to  herself,  "So  be  I 
sorrowful,  because  I  possess  a  beau." 

"Why  couldn't  he  fall  in  love  with  Emily  By- 
jam?"  she  thought  fretfully.  "She's  as  good  a 
speller  as  I  be,  and  has  a  better  countenance — not 
a  freckle  to  her  face.  But  that's  the  worst  of 
falling  in  love.  People  in  love  don't  change; 
their  hearts  air  fixed  on  that  one  for  life,"  con 
cluded  this  wise  woman. 

But  there  was  another  hope  at  the  back  of  Na- 


180  The  Cradle 

omi's  mind,  and  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
That  hope  was  Budsey, — a  real  knight  and 
champion,  better  than  any  beings  in  books.  Bud 
sey  had  not  told  her  what  forlorn  creatures  old 
maids  were.  He  had  not  warned  her  that  this 
would  probably  prove  her  only  offer  of  marriage. 
It  was  not  Budsey  who  had  talked  about  a  new 
bonnet,  and  a  toilet  water  for  freckles — no;  the 
women  of  the  family  had  done  all  these  things. 
"Budsey,"  said  Naomi  to  herself,  "has  held  his 
tongue  and  pitied  me." 

To  be  sure,  Budsey's  own  affairs  were  very  en 
grossing.  By  Mr.  Polke's  will,  the  farm  was  his, 
but  he  must  give  a  home  to  Marm  as  long  as  she 
lived,  and  to  Naomi  unless  she  preferred  the  place 
on  the  north  turnpike.  Budsey  had  built  an 
ashery,  and  a  sawmill  on  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
He  was  as  capable  a  farmer  as  his  father  had  been 
remiss  and  visionary.  Busy  as  he  was  all  day  in 
the  fields  and  woods,  and  spending  seven  long 
evenings  a  week  at  his  lady's,  Naomi  had  not  seen 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      1 8 1 

much  of  him.  But  his  darling  image  was  al 
ways  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  and  no  picture  of 
the  future,  dark  or  bright,  was  without  the  un 
spoken  thought,  "Budsey  will  take  my  part." 

The  asters  had  withered,  the  woods  had  turned 
and  begun  to  fall.  The  mountains  began  to  show 
the  winter  afterglow,  maroon  and  purple  lakes  in 
their  hollows.  This  was  Naomi's  darling  season. 
No  perplexity  or  trouble  could  quite  destroy  its 
pleasure  to  her.  Her  nerves  were  steady  and 
quiet,  and  she  could  sometimes  forget  the  worry 
ing  Day  ahead. 

"Naomye,  I  want  you  should  take  this  measure 
up  to  the  woodhouse  chamber  and  shuck  it  full  of 
but'nut  meats  for  my  suet-cake,"  said  Marm  on 
one  of  these  early  October  mornings.  Naomi 
was  not  sorry  to  have  an  errand  into  the  dark 
mysterious  woodhouse  chamber.  She  had  not 
been  there  for  months.  It  was  the  true  garret  of 
the  house, — full  of  the  cracked  china,  broken 
furniture,  old  gazettes,  and  moth-eaten  dresses 


1 82  The  Cradle 

and  shawls  which  Marm  could  not  endure  to 
throw  away.  These  musty  treasures,  detailed 
histories  of  bygone  days,  lay  piled  all  round  the 
kegs  of  old  black  butternuts  which  buttressed  the 
chimney.  Naomi  crept  along  the  low-ceiled  attic, 
afraid  of  routing  the  wasps  from  their  paper 
domes  overhead,  until  she  reached  the  dormer, 
and  tipped  over  a  keg  of  butternuts  in  her  apron. 

At  first  the  black  shells  flew  fast  all  over  the 
woodhouse  chamber.  Bees  came  in,  explored  the 
beams,  and  buzzed  out  again  into  the  sunshine. 
The  branches  of  the  wine-glass  elm  made  a 
tremulous  dapple  on  the  floor.  The  sweet  air  of 
the  morning  flowed  in  and  made  her  impercepti 
bly  slacken  her  loud  hammer.  All  this  energy 
was  out  of  tune  with  the  soft  still  weather. 
"Cheep,  cheep,"  sang  the  autumn  swallows  in  the 
elm.  She  stopped  cracking  and  looked  out. 

The  fair-weather  mist  had  rolled  away,  leaving 
diamond  webs  all  over  the  grass,  as  if  for  fairy 
bridals.  The  old  pointer  sniffed  at  the  cheeping 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      183 

swallows  from  where  he  lay  on  the  grass.  Mr. 
By  jam  drove  away  to  the  cider  mill  in  a  cart  of 
apples,  his  little  grandchild  sitting  in  the  back, 
bareheaded  to  the  breeze  and  sun. 

"I  wish,"  said  Naomi  to  herself,  "I  was  as 
young  as  Harriet  Byjam's  child." 

She  took  up  a  nut,  but  forgot  to  crack  it. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  child  again,  and  father  was 
alive,  and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter  and 
honey." 

The  swallows  cheeped,  the  school-bell  rang,  and 
Martha  Pouncet  came  down  the  hill  with  buckets 
to  the  spring. 

"Everybody,"  thought  Naomi,  "is  settled  and 
contented  in  their  minds  but  me."  She  drew  a 
long  sigh,  and  gazed  about  the  woodhouse 
chamber. 

"Nabby  said  to  take  warning  by  Mrs.  Maria, 
but  I  think  she's  happier  than  poor  I  be.  Marm 
and  Nabby  and  Aunt  Darby  all  seem  to  think 
alike.  I  see  now  how  poor  Flavia  was  over- 


1 84  The  Cradle 

borne,  and  persuaded  to  marry  Mr.  Snodgrass. 
And  she  was  young  and  tender,  whereas  I'm  quite 
old  and  tough.  And  yet  it  hain't  very  easy  for 
me  to  choose 

"On  one  side,  here's  comfort,  and  pleasing  the 
family,  and  being  respected  in  the  community,  and 
having  a  man  to  look  after  me."  She  paused  a 
long  time  over  this  picture.  "It's  a  great  thing 
to  be  wedded,  everybody  says,  and  very  likely 
they're  right.  On  the  other  side,  what  would  I 
find  to  comfort  me  for  being  an  old  maid  like 
Mrs.  Maria?  Wai,  I  should  have  Budsey  and 
his  childern.  But  they  say  that  wun't  content  me. 
Oh!  what's  that?" 

The  breeze  blew  in  and  began  to  rock  the  little 
old  cradle  with  the  carved  hood,  which  stood  in 
the  corner.  It  rocked  as  softly  as  if  there  were  a 
baby  in  it.  And  as  Naomi  looked,  there  seemed 
to  be  a  baby  in  the  cradle — a  young  maiden's 
dream  baby — her  own.  How  strangely  it  fright 
ened  her!  She  drew  a  long  and  trembling 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      185 

breath.  The  wind  died  away,  and  the  cradle  was 
still. 

"I  will  never  marry  Mr.  Tibbald,"  said  Naomi 
aloud,  taking  up  her  hammer  again.  "I  choose 
to  be  like  Mrs.  Maria." 

"Hi,  sister  slowcoach !" 

The  door  below  opened,  and  Budsey  came  up 
with  long  leaps.  He  had  Marm's  large  apron 
tied  round  his  neck,  and  a  flatiron  in  each  hand. 
He  came  leapfrog  over  the  chests  and  baskets  of 
ragged  keepsakes,  bumping  with  his  shoulders 
the  pendent  paper  castles  of  the  wasps. 

"Is  that  all  you've  shucked,  ye  snail?"  He 
skimmed  Naomi's  peck  measure  up  to  the  ceiling 
without  spilling  a  butternut.  He  whistled  and 
cracked  and  flung  his  shells  into  the  farthest  cor 
ners.  When  bees  flew  in,  he  beat  at  them  with 
his  flatiron,  and  shouted: 

"Aha,  Mr.  Bumble !  I  had  ye  then  in  the  small 
of  your  back!" 

Naomi  laughed  at  all  he  said  and  did.     To  her 


1 86  The  Cradle 

his  monkey-shines  were  very  clever  and  charm 
ing.  He  brought  the  wholesomest  mountain 
breezes  wherever  he  came;  they  blew  round  her 
with  refreshing  coolness. 

"You're  very  cocky  to-day,  Budsey." 

"I'll  tell  ye  something,  sister." 

"What  is  it?     I'm  all  agog  to  hear." 

"Wai — Cassie  and  I  air  going  to  appear  out 
this  Sabbath." 

"Oh,  Budsey!" 

"Yes,  marm.  She's  got  her  bunnit  trimmed, 
and  her  mantilly." 

"Wai,  wall  You  hain't  little  Budsey  any 
more,  be  you?  You're  Master  Saul  Polke — Miss 
Cass  Lucy's  husband  to  be." 

Budsey  said  nothing,  but  swelled  out  his  chest, 
and  his  speaking  eyes  looked  up  the  pike  toward 
the  church. 

"But  I  hain't  as  happy  as  you  be,  Bud 
sey." 

"What  say?     What's  the  trouble,  sister?" 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      187 

"Why,  Budsey,  Marm  and  Nabby  want  I 
should — want  I  should " 

"Hey?" 

"Why,  they  all  think — think  it  would  be  very 
foolish  of  me,  if  anybody — if  anybody  ever  asked 
me  to  marry  'em,  and  I  should  say  no  to  'em." 

Budsey  was  silent. 

"But  I  can't  feel  to  say  yes." 

Budsey  was  silent  still. 

"P'haps  after  all  he  wun't  ask  me,"  said  Naomi 
with  a  little  nervous  laugh.  "That  would  be  the 
best  way  out  of  the  tangle.  For  I  don't  feel  that 
way." 

"What  way?" 

"Why,  the  way  you  and  Cassie  feel." 

Budsey  smiled,  the  superior  smile  of  a  young 
man  in  love.  He  knew  that  no  one  ever  had  felt, 
or  ever  could  feel,  as  he -did. 

"Hen  Tibbald,"  he  said,  "is  a  very  respectable 
man." 

Naomi  listened  with  a  beating  heart. 


1 88  The  Cradle 

"I  think  he'd  make  you  a  good  husband." 

"Oh,  Budsey!" 

"You  better  look  at  it  from  all  sides,"  continued 
young  Saul.  "You  know  you  hain't  as  young 
as  you  once  was." 

("No!  not  as  young  as  Cassie!") 

"A  good  many  would  give  a  good  deal  for  your 
chance." 

"I  wish  they  had  it,  then — they'd  be  very 
welcome." 

"Why,  Naomye,  don't  you  think  you  can  be 
happy  with  poor  Hen  ?" 

"Budsey!" 

"What  say?" 

"I  thought  you  was  in  love — and  I  thought 
you'd  see  how  it  is  with  me,  and  be  sorry  for 
me " 

"Don't  cry,  Naomye !"  • 

"I  w-will  cry!  I'm  very  mis'able — anybody 
would  pity  me  if  they  knowed  ...  if  they 
knowed  how  sorry  I  be  that  I  ever  had  a  b-beau !" 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      189 

"Don't  cry — please  don't  cry,  Naomye." 

"I  thought  you'd  tell  me  not  to  wed  him  unless 
I  felt  that  way " 

Budsey  patted  Naomi's  shoulder  in  silence  for 
a  while.  She  looked  at  him  once  or  twice  through 
a  tear's  magnifying  lens,  and  his  countenance  was 
good  and  brotherly  in  her  eyes.  There  was  no 
tiny  smirk  there  such  as  she  had  thought  she  saw 
in  Nabby's  eyes  when  they  were  driving  to  West 
minster  and  talking  of  this  matter.  At  length 
Budsey  said: 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Naomye,  and  I  wish  it  was 
somebody  you  could  be  fond  of,  instead  of  poor 
Hen.  But  there's  a  great  deal  for  you  to  think  of. 
It  hain't  best  for  a  young  woman  to  stay  single. 
Your  father  hain't  alive  to  know  of  it,  but  you'd 
like  to  do  what  would  have  pleased  him,"  said 
Budsey  very  gently  and  kindly.  "You'd  like  to 
make  him  happy  if  you  could;  wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Naomi  in  a  tiny  voice. 

"And  then  there's  Marm.     She's  be'n  a  pretty 


190  The  Cradle 

good  parent  to  all  of  us  childern.  You'd  like  to 
please  her  too." 

"Yes "  said  Naomi,  thinking,  "I've  heared 

this  once  or  twice  before." 

"And  p'haps,"  said  Budsey,  "you'd  like  to 
please  me." 

Naomi  cried,  as  softly  as  she  could,  into  her 
lap.  Her  knight  and  defender,  then,  was  on  the 
other  side.  Budsey  was  not  going  to  take  her 
part.  She  felt  a  grief  beyond  her  own,  and  a 
chilly  wind  blew  in  through  the  elm's  branches. 

"Budsey!  how  would  you  like  it,  if  you  was 
told  to  marry  Fanny  Paouncet  instead  of  Cass?" 

"Is  there  somebody  you're  fond  of,  then,  Na- 
omye  ?" 

"No — no — there  hain't  anybody,"  said  Naomi 
weakly. 

Budsey  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"Then  I  think,  Naomye,  you'd  better  try  to 
grow  fond  of  poor  Hen.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  you 
feel  that  you  must  turn  him  away." 


In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber      191 

"Buds'ey,  look — look  at  the  cradle!  It's  rock 
ing  again !" 

"What  of  that?  Hain't  anything  but  the 
wind." 

"It's  a  sign  to  me !     It's  a  sign,  I  tell  ye !" 

"Foolishness,  Naomye." 

"I  tell  ye  it's  a  sign  to  me,  that  I  should  follow 
my  own  feelings,  and  say  No  to  Mr.  Tibbald." 

"I  should  think  a  cradle  rocking  would  be  a 
sign  to  you  to  say  Yes  to  poor  Hen,  Naomye.  I 
should  think  it  would  be  a  sign  to  you  that  you'd 
find  comfort  in  your  childern,  if  you  didn't  in 
your  husband.  I  should  think  it  would  make  you 
afeared  to  be  a  childless  woman " 

"I  could  love  and  do  for  your  childern,  yours 
and  Cassie's." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  cradle  of  your  own, 
sister." 

Naomi  knew  better.  She  knew  that  the  imag 
inary  baby  in  the  cradle  was  the  child  of  love. 
But  she  was  very  weary  of  the  struggle.  The 


192     In  the  Woodhouse  Chamber 

current  was  very  strong,  and  Budsey  had  not 
taken  her  part.  She  surrendered  to  the  stream. 
Let  it  carry  her  away,  then,  to  the  sea.  There 
was  a  sort  of  peace  in  yielding.  She  turned  her 
back  on  the  cradle,  which  was  still  rocking  in  the 
wind. 

She  said  to  herself,  "I  was  mistaken  in  think 
ing  I  knew  before  how  it  was  with  Flavia;  but 
now  I  know." 


CHAPTER  XV 
Wait 


We  twa  hae  paidlet  in  the  burn 

From  morning  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

ON  her  wedding  morning  Eliza  Polke  had 
said  to  herself  the  prophetic  words,  "Shall 
I  be  a  roving  woman  without  a  home?"  Even 
such  had  her  life  been  ;  nine  roving  years  without 
a  home.  The  restlessness  of  Frederick  Dukes 
was  beyond  cure.  How  many  a  morning  had 
Eliza  risen  in  the  misty  dawn,  and  dressed  her 
sleepy  children,  and  stowed  away  her  battered 
household  goods  in  a  wagon,  and  travelled  all  day 
to  what  she  often  hoped  might  be  a  home  indeed, 
only  to  leave  it  the  next  spring  or  fall  to  jog  away 
to  another  township.  Her  children  were  all  born 
in  different  towns  and  baptised  in  different 

churches;    some    were    baptised    Episcopalians, 
193 


194  Eliza's  Visit 


some  Congregationalists,  and  some  Baptists. 
Eliza  Dukes  never  had  real  neighbours.  Her 
husband  never  held  a  town  office;  he  was  never 
even  a  fence-viewer.  There  was  but  little  money 
in  the  purse;  and  when  by  good  luck  or  good 
management  there  was  an  extra  sum,  Frederick 
Dukes  would  buy  a  horse,  and  begin  an  endless 
chain  of  horse-trading.  This  insidious  vice  had 
grown  upon  him  until  his  stable  was  full  of  four- 
footed  speculations  which  he  was  trying  to  fatten, 
or  to  cure  of  spavins  or  proud  feet,  and  to  sell  at 
an  advantage. 

Such  was  the  outside  view  of  this  travel-worn 
family.  Their  townspeople  shook  their  heads 
and  pitied  Mrs.  Dukes,  and  supposed  that  she 
wished  she  had  never  seen  her  shiftless  husband. 
Sometimes  they  met  the  family  out  walking  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  seeing  the  wife  hanging 
on  her  husband's  arm,  and  the  children  playing 
round  them,  wondered,  "Can  she  be  happy  after 
all,  in  her  own  way?"  The  ways  of  Providence 


Eliza's  Visit  195 


are  past  finding  out.  This  shifting  life:  these 
children  and  cares ;  this  husband  to  stand  by  when 
he  had  little  standing  among  his  acquaintances, 
agreed  well  with  that  hidden  self  in  Eliza  which 
time  had  brought  to  birth.  Marriage  had  done 
as  much  for  her  husband.  At  times  he  drank  too 
much;  he  was  sometimes  rough-spoken;  but  he 
was  more  to  be  trusted  than  before.  His  burdens 
were  his  best  blessing.  While  they  aged  and 
weighed  him  down,  they  steadied  him  along  the 
narrow  way. 

When  Eliza  was  almost  thirty,  and  looked 
about  forty-five,  her  husband's  innumerable  mov- 
ings  brought  her  back  from  Maine,  where  they 
had  wandered  for  a  year  or  two,  to  Westminster. 
She  thought  at  first,  with  somewhat  calloused 
memories,  that  she  would  not  care  to  go  up  the 
mountain  to  see  her  old  home,  or  her  brothers  and 
sisters  who  still  lived  in  the  tollgate  town.  By 
hearsay  she  knew  most  of  the  events  that  had  be 
fallen  them.  She  knew  of  Saul's  betrothal,  and 


196  Eliza's  Visit 


faint  rumours  had  reached  her  that  Naomi 
had  an  admirer.  These  matters  did  not  touch 
her  heart,  but  when  she  heard  of  her  father's 
death  she  shed  many,  and  some  bitter,  tears.  She 
saw  him  now  as  she  had  been  too  blind  to  see  him 
in  the  old  days,  as  the  most  loving  father  in  Bear- 
town;  and  waked  up  at  night  by  her  croupy  or 
teething  little  ones,  she  often  found  some  wistful 
dream  still  clinging  about  her,  of  sitting  on  her 
father's  knee  again,  while  he  smoothed  her  low- 
growing  hair  back  from  her  forehead.  She  be 
gan  to  ruminate  with  softer  eyes  as  she  looked 
northward  from  Westminster.  All  must  be  much 
changed  up  there.  She  was  herself  much 
changed,  and  perhaps  nobody  behind  the  poplars 
would  know  her  if  she  appeared  there.  Perhaps 
if  she  were  recognised  she  would  not  be  any  too 
welcome,  she  thought.  It  was  a  long,  long  time 
since  she  had  fled  away  on  the  white  mare.  Thus 
she  meditated  at  first,  as  she  looked  up  from  her 
work,  and  saw  the  tiny  houses  embosomed  in 


Eliza's  Visit  197 


trees,  in  the  mountain  hollow.  "Naomye  may 
come  and  see  me  and  the  childern — p'haps  she 
will  when  she  knows  I'm  settled  here.  If  she 
doosn't,  it's  because  she's  forgotten  her  sister." 
But  soon  the  grass-grown  track  winding  upward, 
which  she  saw  from  her  kitchen  window  all  day 
long,  began  to  call  and  beckon  to  her.  When  the 
third  Saturday  came,  she  asked  her  husband  to 
harness  one  of  his  trading  horses  and  drive  her  up 
the  mountain.  They  slowly  climbed  the  brown 
grassy  track  which  she  remembered  so  well,  across 
the  twenty-odd  waterbars,  by  Tipping  Rock,  and 
the  bridge  over  the  Branch  falls,  until  at  last  they 
came  in  sight  of  the  spindling  poplars.  Eliza 
clutched  her  husband's  arm,  with  cheeks  as  white 
as  chalk.  She  had  not  supposed  she  cared  so 
much  as  this! 

Naomi  sat  looking  over  her  piece-bags,  all 
alone,  in  the  side  doorway,  while  the  sound  of 
wheels  creaked  in  her  ears ;  but  absent-minded  as 
ever,  she  did  not  hear  them.  She  was  absorbed 


Eliza's  Visit 


in  the  engrossing  task  of  young  women — in  ex 
changing  her  own  ideals  and  hopes  for  those 
which  her  relations  preferred  for  her.  She  for 
got  her  actual  piece-bags  spilling  their  variegated 
colours  on  the  floor,  in  the  allegorical  pieces  which 
she  was  fitting  together  in  her  mind ;  picking  out 
every  bright  morsel  of  comfort,  and  every  strong 
morsel  of  common  sense,  in  her  situation,  and 
trying  to  piece  them  together  into  a  stout  service 
able  garment  for  lifelong  wear.  It  was  a  work 
of  time. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  now,  and  all  there  is 
left  to  do  is  to  say  yes  to  Mr.  Tibbald  when  he 
asks  me.  It's  best  that  I  should  take  him,  and  I 
hain't  going  to  repine.  Everybody  says  I  shall 
.be  happy  when  I'm  wedded  to  him.  I'm  so  old 
now,  it  hain't  likely  I  shall  ever  fall  in  love.  The 
pleasantest  thing  about  it  is,  that  it  pleases  Marm 
and  Budsey.  Then  there's  having  a  home  of  my 
own,  that  they  all  make  so  much  of  when  they 
counsel  me  about  it.  Wai,  I  might  go  and  live  in 


Eliza'.s  Visit  199 

the  house  father  left  me,  on  the  north  turnpike; 
but  I  should  have  to  live  there  alone.  Wai,  'tis  a 
pleasant  thought,  and  doos  help  to  make  marriage 
look  brighter,  to  think  I  shall  be  able  to  shift  the 
counterpanes  as  often  as  I  please,  and  use  my 
best  dishes  every  day.  A  woman  stands  better  in 
the  community,  they  say,  if  she  has  a  husband  to 
show  for  herself.  I  don't  know  about  that.  I've 
be'n  President  of  the  Dorcases  for  two  years,  and 
Mite  Collector  before  that;  and  I  took  the  blue 
ribbon  with  my  cupcakes  to  the  Valley  Fair.  But 
then  they  say — look  at  poor  Mrs.  Maria!  Wai, 
but  Budsey  would  never  make  a  drudge  of 
me.  He  ain't  that  kind  of  a  brother.  When 
all's  said  and  done,  0  how  I  wish  I  could 
be  an  old  maid,  and  live  with  Budsey  and 
Cass " 

A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway,  and  Naomi 
turned  and  saw  her  sister. 

"Elizy  Polke,  can  this  be  you?" 

"I  guess  'tis,  Naomye." 


200  Eliza's  Visit 


The  sisters  embraced,  and  then  stood  apart, 
drinking  in  each  other's  lineaments. 

"Wai !  you  hain't  changed  much  since  you  was 
little  Naomye,"  said  Eliza. 

"You  hain't  changed  much  either,  sister,"  Na 
omi  replied  in  her  loving-kindness;  but  she  had 
never  seen  any  one  so  changed  as  Eliza  Dukes. 
This  faded  woman,  with  her  loose-jointed  figure 
dressed  without  pains  or  pride,  with  her  wisps  of 
grey  hair,  the  crows'  feet  round  her  eyes,  and 
such  a  patient  mouth — a  mouth  made  over,  en 
tirely  altered — this  woman  Eliza?  Naomi  was 
painfully  conscious  of  the  contrast  which  she 
made,  with  her  blooming  cheeks  and  comely  stout 
figure ;  and  in  her  sisterly  heart  she  wished  it  were 
otherwise. 

Eliza  stood  gazing  at  Naomi,  and  the  words 
which  she  next  said  were  even  more  unlike  her 
former  self  than  her  faded  cheeks  and  homely 
dress. 

"Haow  the  wheels  go  raound !  time  was  when 


Eliza's  Visit  201 

I  thought  I  was  far  away  the  prettiest  of  us  two ; 
and  here  you're  far  away  the  prettiest  of  us 
naow." 

"Oh,  sister,  you  look  pretty  enough  to  me!" 
cried  Naomi. 

"I  hain't  pretty  any  more,"  said  Eliza  calmly. 
"But  you're  very  pretty,  Naomye.  P'haps  you 
always  was,  but  I  was  too  feather-headed  to  see 
it.  Wai,  let's  hope  we  can  both  be  happy,  if  we 
can't  both  be  pretty.  Oh!"  She  had  caught 
sight  of  the  wooden  portrait  which  the  journey 
man  artist  had  made  of  Budsey  the  week  before. 

"Ah !"  cried  Naomi,  following  her  sister's  eyes. 
"That's  little  Budsey  in  his  appearing-out  clothes ! 
You'd  scarcely  know  Budsey,  he's  growed  so. 
But  his  hair's  the  same  handsome  colour  it  used 
to  be,  and  his  teeth  air  as  fine  and  even  as  the 
pebble  ones  they  sell  ye  to  Boston.  He's  a  proper 
tall  young  man  too,  I  can  tell  ye !" 

"Betrothed,  I  hear,"  put  in  Eliza. 

"Oh,  yes,  to  little  Cassie  Lucy.     They're  goin' 


2O2  Eliza's  Visit 


to  appear  out  to-morrow.  Budsey's  got  a  purple- 
faced  suit.  I  tell  ye  what,  Elizy,  if  you'll  come 
upstairs  I'll  show  it  to  ye — the  handsomest 
thing " 

"I  guess  I'll  set  here  and  visit  awhile  with  you, 
Naomye,  first." 

"Wai,  you'll  want  to  hear  about  Budsey.  He 
was  the  smartest  scholar  to  winter  school  before 
he  left.  To  one  match  he  spelt  everybody  down 
but  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  Tibbald.  What  do  you  think 
of  that,  hey?" 

"Mr.  Tibbald?"  queried  Eliza. 

"Why,  yes,  sister.  Hen  Tibbald  we  used  to 
call  him  before  he  took  up  the  school." 

"I  remember  Hen  Tibbald.  Hain't  he  bald 
yet?  His  hair  was  always  as  thin  as  nettin'." 

"Why,  no,  sister,  he  hain't — he  hain't  bald," 
said  Naomi  in  a  very  troubled  voice,  with  trem 
bling  lips. 

But  Eliza's  mind  had  wandered  off  the  thin- 
haired  schoolmaster.  She  thought  it  very  strange 


Eliza's  Visit  203 


that  Naomi  had  not  inquired  yet  about  her  chil 
dren.  She  said : 

"I  wish  I  had  fetched  up  my  little  Sim  to  show 
you,  Naomye." 

"Oh,  Elizy,  how  many  childern  have  you  got?" 
cried  Naomi,  eager  to  atone  for  not  having  asked 
before.  "How  many  air  boys?  How  old  be 
they?  I'm  all  agog  to  know." 

"Why,  Sim's  the  oldest,  and  then  there's  Jim — 
talk  of  spelling!  they're  the  best  spellers  I  ever 
knowed  of  for  their  ages.  Sim  was  a  forward 
young  one  from  the  beginning.  I  do  wish  I'd 
fetched  him  up  to  show  ye !  Hain't  had  the  same 
teacher  a  hull  year  since  he  was  born;  but  he 
knowed  all  his  letters  before  he  was  three,  and 
could  read  good  that  same  year.  His  father 
thought  he  was  the  smartest  child  in  nine  caoun- 
ties."  Eliza  flushed  when  she  spoke  of  her  hus 
band,  and  a  tone  of  sweetness  crept  into  her  voice, 
and  Naomi  heard  it  with  a  strange  pang. 

"How  many  have  you  got  in  all,  Elizy?" 


204  Eliza's  Visit 


"Eight  above  the  sod  and  two  below." 

"How  old  was  they  when  you  lost  'em,  sister  ?" 

"My  second  twins  ?  They  died  when  they  was 
born." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  window. 

"Here's  Frederick  himself,"  said  Eliza,  rising 
and  standing,  with  dignity  in  every  line  of  her 
body,  as  a  round-shouldered  man,  with  a  growth 
of  stubbly  beard,  came  into  the  room. 

"Husband,  here's  Naomye." 

"Good-day,  marm." 

He  no  longer  threw  his  head  back,  and  looked 
through  slits  in  his  eyelids.  He  showed  many  a 
trace  of  hard  work  and  poverty.  The  manliness 
in  him  had  thriven  on  these  hardships,  and  like  a 
growing  tree,  had  crowded  out  the  weeds  of  his 
youth — so  Naomi  thought,  as  she  looked  at  him 
respectfully. 

"I  put  the  mare  in  your  brother's  barn,  marm. 
Site  wun't  teach  any  tricks  to  the  colts  aout  there. 
She's  as  saound  as  a  trigger.  You  could  water 


Eliza's  Visit  205 


that  mare  with  apple-jack,  and  she'd  show  ye  no 
tricks,  neither  in  stall  nor  in  harness." 

Naomi  could  not  think  of  any  reply  to  make  to 
this,  so  she  looked  out  the  window  in  the  vain 
hope  of  seeing  Budsey  and  Marm  returning  across 
lots  in  the  buckboard. 

"Your  brother  hain't  to  home,  I  p'sume?" 
asked  Eliza's  husband.  "I  was  goin'  to  ask  him 
if  he'd  trade  any  of  his  nags  for  that  mare." 

"He  hain't  here  now,  but  I  expect  him  and 
Marm  both  hum  by  supper-time.  You'll  stay  all 
night,  wun't  ye?  I'll  make  up  the  spare  cham 
ber " 

"Why,  thanky,  marm "  Mr.  Dukes  was 

beginning,  when  Eliza  cut  across  with : 

"No — no,  Frederick — we  must  be  gitting  back 
to  the  childern." 

"Oh,  Elizy,  I  do  want  to  have  you  see  Budsey, 
how  he's  growed !  and  Marm  '11  have  a  tantrum  if 
she  finds  you've  be'n  here  while  she  was 
away " 


206  Eliza's  Visit 


"We'll  come  again,  and  fetch  up  little  Jim 
and  Sim,  and  little  Poll  and  Mag,  to  show 

ye." 

"Wai,  let  me  go  find  some  of  the  shrub  and 
raspberry  vinegar  for  ye;  and  you  must  take  a 
quarter  of  beef  if  you've  got  room  for  it,  and  a 
firkin  of  cider  jell." 

When  they  had  drunk  the  shrub  and  vinegar, 
and  eaten  some  rich  stale  cake,  Naomi  took  them 
out  to  show  the  new  ashery,  the  plum  trees,  new 
hencoops,  and  reaping  rake.  They  looked  over 
the  pigs,  calves,  and  hens.  They  tasted  the  crude 
potash  in  the  tumble-kettle,  and  looked  at  the 
beginnings  of  Budsey's  sawmill.  But  when 
Frederick  Dukes  was  gone  to  hitch  up  his  gentle 
mare  with  her  many-times-pieced  and  knotted 
harness,  Eliza  fell  into  one  or  two  long  reveries. 
Naomi  furtively  studied  her  sister's  old  face,  bent 
spine,  and  crooked,  toiling  gait. 

"Is  she  dreaming  of  her  young  days,  when  she 
was  so  pretty  and  so  frivolous,  so  high-strung  and 


Eliza's  Visit  207 


haughty?"  wondered  Naomi  as  she  took  these 
sidelong  gazes.  "Doos  she  wish  she  could  choose 
again,  and  choose  to  stay  in  a  cheerful  farmhouse, 
where  there  was  a  plenty  of  everything?  Or  else 
wed  with  some  respected  man  and  good  purvider, 
such  as  my  .  .  .  such  as  Mr.  Tibbald?  I  don't 
know  if  I  darest  to  ask  her !  I  don't  know  what 
she  might  say — I  don't  scarcely  know  what  I 
zvish  she'd  say!  Elizy?" 

The  dreamer  turned,  with  a  slight  start. 

"What  was  you  thinkin'  of?" 

"Something  I  hain't  told  you  about  yet." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.     It's  my  little  innocent." 

"Have  you  got  such  a  child,  Elizy  ?  Is  it  a  boy 
or  a  girl?" 

"It's  a  little  boy.  His  father  and  I  think  a 
great  deal  about  him,  what's  to  become  of  him  in 
the  years  to  come.  But  the  Lord  '11  provide." 

"How  old  is  he?  Have  you  christened 
him?" 


208  Eliza's  Visit 


"Oh,  yes.  His  name's  Alferd.  He's  four 
years  old  this  May." 

Naomi  forgot  her  question  in  a  sudden  desire 
to  see  the  unintelligent  plaintive  face  which 
Eliza's  few  words  had  painted  on  her  imagina 
tion.  She  could  not  tell  why,  but  she  "craved 
after  him."  She  asked  Eliza  many  questions. 
What  colour  were  Alfred's  eyes  ?  Was  he  strong 
or  delicate?  Did  he  play  about,  or  moon  and 
dream?  Whether  he  talked?  Whether  he  was 
taken  to  church?  Whether  his  brothers  and  sis 
ters  were  kind  to  him?  and  did  he  know  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  or  any  little  hymn  ? 

Eliza  said  his  eyes  were  pale,  like  an  albino's ; 
he  was  thin  and  delicate,  with  a  bluish  leaden 
skin ;  he  played  wildly  by  fits  and  starts,  and  then 
it  was  hard  to  catch  him ;  he  spoke  a  few  words, 
and  babbled  a  great  many ;  he  could  not  learn  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  or  to  count,  or  to  tell  his  letters; 
yes,  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  very  good  with 
him. 


Eliza's  Visit  209 


"There  air  those,  Naomye,  that  think  such 
childern  air  sent  as  a  punishment  to  their 
fathers  and  mothers;  but  Alfy's  not  a  pun 
ishment  to  Frederick  and  me.  Instead  of 
vexation  we  take  a  kind  of  comfort  in  him — 
but  I  don't  believe  I  could  explain  to  ye 
the  curious  kind  of  comfort  'tis,"  she  ended 
wistfully. 

Long-forgotten  scenes  had  returned  to  Na 
omi's  mind  at  that  word  "punishment."  She 
thought  of  the  paper  Eliza  had  left  for  their 
father,  and  of  how  Marm  had  said,  "Your  shister 
hain't  be'n  a  good  girl." 

"Elizy,"  said  Naomi,  "you  left  a  little  paper  for 
father  when  you — when  you " 

"I  b'lieve  I  did,  my  dear." 

"I  was  never  allowed  to  read  it,  and  I've  often 
wondered  what  it  said." 

"Never  allowed  to — what  do  you  mean,  Na 
omye  ?" 

"Why — why,  nothing,  only  that  father  was  so 


2io  Eliza's  Visit 


choice  of  it,  and  set  so  much  store  by  it,  and  all — 
don't  cry,  Elizy !" 

"You  frightened  me  so,  Naomye!  I  thought 
you  meant — I  thought  you  meant  that  father 
thought  I " 

"Oh,  no!  no!  Father  was  comforted  by  that 
paper,  and  set  the  most  store  by  it  of  anything  he 
had,"  said  Naomi,  falsifying  like  a  good  sister. 

"All  I  said  in  it  was  that  I  did  grieve  to  be 
bringing  disgrace  on  him,  for  I  had  a  longing  to 
comfort  him,  and  I  knowed  how  saour  and  sulky 
I'd  be'n  all  that  winter."  said  Eliza,  drying  her 
eyes.  They  had  turned  back  toward  the  house, 
and  could  see  the  gentle  (not  too  gentle)  mare 
being  persuaded  into  the  thills  of  the  worn  buck- 
board.  Naomi  saw  the  time  growing  short  in 
which,  if  ever,  she  was  to  ask  her  question.  A 
great  deal  suddenly  seemed  to  hang  on  it.  Bud- 
sey  had  not  taken  her  part;  but  what  if  Eliza 
should  have  come  now  to  her  rescue?  A  great 
thrill,  a  taste  of  freedom,  ran  through  her  calm 


Eliza's  Visit  211 


body.  Eliza  perhaps  had  been  sent  here  by  those 
Powers  in  whom  Naomi  believed — "like  the 
Daughter  of  Jerusalem,"  said  Naomi  to  herself, 
"that  brought  good  tidings  up  the  high  moun 
tain." — What  a  clatter  this  was  in  her  side! 
Aloud  she  said : 

"Elizy!" 

"What  say,  sister?" 

"Will  you  answer  me  a  question  true  blue,  ancl 
not  be  angry  with  me  for  asking  it?  It  hain't  a 
matter  of  curiosity — it's  very  important  to  me." 

"Ask  it,"  replied  Eliza,  giving  her  a  full  look. 

("This  curious  beating  in  my  side,"  thought 
Naomi,  "must  be  the  tremor  cordis.") 

"In  your  heart  and  soul,  Elizy,  air  you  glad 
you  fled  away  with  Frederick  Dukes?  or  would 
you  take  your  life  back  and  stay  to  home?  Be 
sure  you  speak  the  truth!  the  hull,  plain  truth!" 

"Take  my  life  back,  sister  ?  Oh,  no !  I  never 
saw  the  woman  I'd  change  my  lot  with;  neither 
in  Maine;  nor  in  York;  nor  in  the  Green  Moun- 


212  Eliza's  Visit 


t'ins.  There's  a  kind  of  happiness  that's  worth 
the  price  I've  paid  for  it,  and  a  great  sight  more; 
and  it's  my  hope,  little  sister,  that,  old  as  you  be, 
you  may  have  it  yet,  for  it's  far  above  rubies. 
You  better  wait  for  it,  Naomye.  Favour  is 
deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain;  but  as  the  Good 
Book  says,  All  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost." 

Naomi  took  up  her  sister's  stubbed  and  knotty 
hand.  She  was  trembling  all  over. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Tibbald,"  she  muttered. 

"What  say,  Naomye?" 

"I  say  I've  be'n  through  the  fire,  and  through 
the  water,  and  you've  brought  me  out  into  a 
wealthy  place." 


w 


CHAPTER  XVI 
prouO  Summer 

HEN  Naomi  awoke  on  the  morning  after 


Eliza's  visit,  the  blue-jays  were  chattering 
in  the  poplar  tops,  and  a  sprinkle  of  yellow  leaves 
blew  in  the  window,  and  made  a  sunshine  on  the 
floor  before  the  sun  was  up. 

"What  makes  me  feel  this  lightness  in  my 
head?  Oh,  yes,  I  recollect!  I  recollect!  Elizy 
was  here  yistaday." 

She  stopped,  transfixed,  with  her  face  half 
washed. 

"I  recollect  what  she  said  to  me  about  that 
matter  of  true  love.  How  those  blue-jays  twit 
ter  !  Twitter  away,  little  jays !  I  feel  as  young, 
and  free,  and  spry  as  any  of  ye." 

She  paused  a  full  five  minutes  over  her  shoes 

and  stockings. 

213 


?.I4        The  Proud  Summer  Ends 

"I'm  most  afeared  I  shall  hop  and  prance  on 
the  way  to  church.  Elizy,  this  is  your  doin's. 
You  let  me  out  of  the  cage." 

"  True  love,'  said  she,  'is  wuth  a  large  price.' 
And  then  she  said,  'P'haps  you,  sister,  old  as  you 
be,  may  have  it  yet.'  Here!  I  must  dress  me 
quicker  than  this.  This  is  Budsey's  appearin'- 
out  day." 

There  was  enough  to  do  to  make  any  young 
woman  hasten  with  her  dressing.  All  the  Lucys 
were  coming  to  dinner,  and  yet  all  the  Polkes 
must  be  in  church  to  see  the  betrothed  ones  enter 
arm  in  arm,  and  sit  down  solemnly  in  one  pew  in 
the  eyes  of  the  congregation.  Naomi  had  not 
only  herself  to  dress,  when  her  work  was  done; 
but  she  must  help  Marm  into  her  bursting  tight 
beaded  waist  and  long  mantilla ;  and  she  meant  to 
fetch  Budsey  a  brown  lily  for  his  buttonhole,  if 
she  could  find  time  to  run  to  the  swamp. 

Naomi  herself  was  to  wear  her  rainbow  stock 
ings  and  silver  comb.  Her  old  blue  dress  was 


The  Proud  Summer  Ends        215 

still  her  best,  but  she  had  a  pair  of  crocheted 
mitts,  and  a  green  flower  in  her  silvery  poke. 

As  she  came  into  church,  Mr.  Tibbald  looked 
at  her  with  kindling  eyes.  She  looked  very 
young,  very  spruce  and  cheerful,  in  all  her  best 
garments.  How  well  the  green  flower  became 
her  chestnut  hair ! 

Mr.  Tibbald  had  often  felt  like  this  before, 
especially  in  his  solitary  lodging,  where  the 
stuffed  owl  sat  on  the  head  of  his  bed,  and  his 
melancholy  fiddle  hung  on  the  wall.  He  was 
accustomed  to  these  waves  of  longing  for  a  small 
creature  in  petticoats  behind  his  teapot,  or  beside 
his  studious  chair.  But  it  was  almost  always  by 
lamplight  that  he  felt  such  pangs,  which  the 
broad  light  of  day  generally  dissipated,  as  it 
raised  the  value  of  his  comfortable  bachelorhood 
in  his  eyes.  And  yet  he  knew  that  the  waves  of 
longing  were  a  rising  tide,  and  he  was  content  to 
feel  that  swell,  and  to  be  carried  out  of  his  haven 
in  the  fulness  of  time. 


2i 6       The  Proud  Summer  Ends 

Now  in  the  bright  light  of  morning,  and  in  all 
this  concourse  of  people,  he  felt  all  his  pangs  and 
longings  coming  upon  him  in  a  flood.  Where 
was  his  customary  nervousness?  What  made 
him  feel  himself  another  man,  one  who  would 
never  again  tremble  on  lonely  roads,  or  behind 
side-stepping  horses?  That  red-chestnut  head, 
those  silken  soft  grey  eyes,  sweet  hollows  in 
amber-freckled  cheeks.  .  .  .  Was  it  possible  that 
the  tide  had  risen  to  the  full,  and  was  bearing  him 
out  of  his  haven? 

Here  were  the  appearers-out.  Cass,  in  a 
striped  mantle  and  large  pink  bonnet,  hung  on 
Budsey's  arm.  Budsey's  purple-faced  suit  be 
came  his  figure  and  proud,  darkly  sunburnt  face. 
He  carried  himself  with  an  excellent  lordly  air. 
Mr.  Tibbald  drew  several  deep  breaths  as  the 
Psalm  began : 

"Sing  we  merrily  unto  God  our  strength, 
make  a  cheerful  noise  unto  the  God  of  Ja 
cob: 


The  Proud  Summer  Ends        217 

"Take  the  psalm,  bring  hither  the  tabret,  the 
merry  harp  with  the  lute. 

"Blow  up  the  trumpet  in  the  new  moon." 

"Before  another  new  moon,"  thought  Mr.  Tib- 
bald  solemnly,  "I  may  have  appeared  out  with 
Mrs.  Naomye." 

And  when  he  went  up  to  his  lady's  door  that 
evening,  he  had  only  one  fleeting  cold  fear,  as 
he  seemed  to  behold  her,  in  a  glass,  retiring 
smoothly  on  the  billowing  wave  of  her  cour 
tesy.  But  in  that  instant  he  thrust  his  nails 
into  his  palm  until  they  drew  a  little  of  his  pale 
blood. 

"Come  out,  Mrs.  Naomye,  and  set  on  the  bench 
under  the  popple  tree." 

"I'm  afeared  it's  blowing  up  a  shower." 

"If  it  doos,  I  can  purtect  you." 

What  solemn  tones  were  these? 

"Wai,  then,  I'll  find  me  a  shawl." 

They  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and  Mr.  Tibbald 
began  as  he  had  resolved  to  do. 


2i 8       The  Proud  Summer  Ends 

"I've  fetched  a  new  ballad  to  larn  you,  Mrs. 
Naomye." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  agog  to  hear  it !" 

"I'll  speak  the  first  line,  and  see  what  you  think 
of  it" 

Again  that  solemn  tone ! 

Naomi  said,  "I  hope  it's  as  pretty  as  'Barbry 
Allen.' " 

"I— I  think  it's  far  away  prettier." 

"Wai,  hasten  and  let  me  hear  it." 

How  fast  his  waistcoat  rose  and  fell ! 

"My  Deare My  Deare " 

"If  you've  forgot  it,  never  mind,  Mr.  Tibbald." 
"I  hain't  forgot  it. 

"My  Deare  and  Only  Love." 

Mr.  Tibbald  stopped  here;  and  he  thought  his 
lady  could  have  heard  his  loudly  hammering 
heart;  but  she  was  trembling  worse  than  he. 

"Wh-what  do  you  think  of  that  line,  Mrs.  .  .  . 
Mrs. " 


The  Proud  Summer  Ends       219 

("Oh!"  thought  Naomi,  "he  cannot  speak  my 
name!") 

"I  think  I  would  better  be  dead,  Mr.  Tibbald." 

"Don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Naomye !" 

"I  do — I  do  wish  so,  Mr.  Tibbald !  I  see  now 
what  a  wicked  woman  I  be.  I  should  be  struck 
deef  or  blind  for  this — you  never  can  forgive 
me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Naomye?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  one  o'  those  hateful  women — 
hussies — minxes — cats — that  let  a  gentleman 
come  to  visit  them  and  teach  them  pretty  ballads, 
and  all  the  time  they  don't — don't  feel  that  way — 
they're  proud,  they're  pleased,  but  they  don't  feel 
to — to — to  love  that  gentleman  the  smallest 
bit." 

After  a  dreadful  pause,  Mr.  Tibbald  said  in  a 
sort  of  frozen  voice: 

"I've  beared  of  such  women,  but  that  you  was 
one  of  that  kind  I  never  would  believe.  Wai, 
I've  be'n  deceived  and  played  with,  and  that's  the 


22O      The  Proud  Summer  Ends 

end  of  it.  Enough  said — I  hope  no  other  man'll 
ever " 

"Mr.  Tibbald!" 

"Leave  go  my  coat !" 

"Mr.  Tibbald,  I  hain't  one  of  that  kind  that 
deceive  and  play  with  a  person !  I  never  deceived 
you — I  never  took  your  stuffed  owl,  though  you 
offered  it  to  me  twice!  I  never  accepted  any 
token  from  you !" 

"I  bid  you  good-night,  Mrs.  Naomye." 

"You're  very  angry  with  me,  and  all  because  I 
couldn't  think  of  any  maidenly  way  to  tell  you  I 
didn't  love  you  before  you  asked  me." 

Mr.  Tibbald  stopped,  as  these  words  pierced 
through  his  wounded  pride  like  a  rapier. 

"How  could  I  help  this  coming  to  pass,  Mr. 
Tibbald?" 

"You  never  w-wanted  to  help  it!  You  were 
content  if  you  could  bring  me  to  these  straits. 
W-wal,  enough  said.  I  p'sume  I'm  not  the  only 
man  you've  served  so.  Go  on,  do,  and  tell  your 


The  Proud  Summer  Ends       221 

old  Marm  all  about  it,  what  a  figure  I  cut,  and  all, 
and  laugh  about  it,  both  of  ye!  You  needn't  to 
wait  any  longer  than  till  I  get  as  far  away  as  the 
Temples'  barn." 

"Hush,  Mr.  Tibbald!  Marm  Patridge  wun't 
laugh  at  this — she'll  be  very  sorry  and  cross. 
Budsey  '11  be  sorry  too,  and  my  aunt  Darby  '11 
scold  me — she'll  scold  me  for  choosing  to  be  an  old 
maid.  I  shall  be  one !  I  shall  grow  peevish,  and 
stingy,  and  spiteful — the  childern  in  the  streets 
'11  holler  at  me.  And  that's  because  I  wun't  tell 
you  what's  false,  and  cheat  both  of  us  out  of  the 
best  thing  in  life " 

The  purple  anger  all  ebbed  away  from  Mr. 
Tibbald's  face  as  Naomi's  voice  broke  on  these 
words.  He  felt  a  great  shame  and  tenderness  in 
his  heart.  He  turned  back,  and  lifted  up  the  lit 
tle  locket  on  Naomi's  neck,  and  kissed  it.  Had 
he  loved  her  before,  he  wondered?  for  he  loved 
her  much  more  now  that  he  had  forgiven  her. 

"Naomye — Mrs.  Naomye — if  a  man  should  be 


222       The  Proud  Summer  Ends 

content  to  wait  a  long  while — a  matter  of  months, 
or  a  year — wouldn't  there  be  a  chance  for  him? 
He  hasn't,  p'haps,  behaved  quite  as  a  gentleman 
should,  this  evening.  But  that  was  because  it 
was  p-pretty  hard  for  him " 

Naomi  shook  her  head. 

"I  would  say  so,  Mr.  Tibbald — I  would  say 
there  was  a  chance  for  a  man,  that  /  call  an  excel 
lent  gentleman,  if  I  could  feel  even  the  smallest 
feeling  for  him,  like  a  tiny  little  breath  of  wind — 
but  no!  I'm  like  a  tree  with  not  a  leaf  stir- 
ring." 

"This  world  is  pretty  hard  for  a  man " 

"Oh !     Can  you  forgive  me,  Mr.  Tibbald  ?" 

"Call  me  Henry  once,  if  you  can." 

"Henry,  if  I  could  help  you  to  forget  this,  and 
to  find  some  other,  better  woman !" 

"I  shall  be  a  bachelor  to  the  end  of  my  days, 
Mrs.  Naomye." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
Gbe  little  f  nnocent 

Who  taught  this  pleading  to  unpractised  eyes  ? 

THE  harvest  moon,  it  seemed  to  Naomi, 
would  never  wane.  On  night  after  night 
it  waked  her  up  with  its  silver  patterns  on  the 
curtains  and  the  ceiling  beams,  and  made  her  sit 
up  and  look  out  at  the  winking  world.  Then 
began  the  long  hours  of  self-reproach  of  which 

she  knew  the  ache  and  burn  so  well 

"How  could  I  draw  Mr.  Tibbald  into  all  this 
trouble?  Oh,  I  wish,  I  wish  I  had  it  to  do  over 
again!  How  much  sooner  would  I  be  rude  and 
unmaidenlike !  How  much  sooner  would  I  have 
throwed  all  his  comfits  on  the  floor,  that  night  of 
the  spell!  Then  I  would  have  been  hateful  for 
an  hour;  but  now  I've  pushed  him  into  a  pit  of 

misery  for  years  and  years ! 

223 


224  The  Little  Innocent 

"I  wish  he  could  be  cured  of  loving  me.  But 
said  he,  'I  shall  be  a  bachelor  to  the  end  of  my 
days.'  I'm  sure  Mace  Paouncet  was  twice  be 
trothed,  but  I  s'pose  he  wasn't  a  true  lover.  Mr. 
Tibbald  hain't  so  fickle  as  Mace.  I  wish  he  could 
cast  an  eye  on  Emily  Byjam,  or  Sarey  Paouncet. 
They're  both  prettier  and  smarter  than  I  be,  ac 
cording  to  what  most  folks  think.  But  no !  that 
hain't  the  way.  True  lovers  air  inconsolable. 
'I  shall  be  a  bachelor  all  my  days,'  said  he.  I 
deserve  to  lie  awake  and  cry  this  hull  night 
through.  I'm  one  of  those  hateful  women  that 
I've  heared  about  and  hated,  in  ballads  and  books. 
Yes !  I'm  like  one  of  those  callous,  painted,  brazen 
women." 

Her  pillow  was  wet  with  weeping,  and  what 
with  self-reproach,  and  the  disappointed  looks  of 
her  elders,  she  grew  to  have  a  drooping  carriage, 
in  spite  of  Marm's  quoting  a  thousand  times : 

"Up  with  your  head,  and  up  with  your  chin, 
Toes  turned  out,  and  heels  turned  in." 


The  Little  Innocent  225 

Budsey  and  Cass  were  married  in  the  third 
week  of  December.  They  had  a  very  fine  wed 
ding;  the  church  was  lined  with  young  spruces, 
and  a  hundred  ropes  of  ground  pine  festooned 
the  ceiling.  Everybody  in  Beartown  came  and 
danced  and  feasted  in  the  small  Lucy  house. 
Eliza  and  Frederick  Dukes,  with  their  little 
girls,  came,  and  Nabby  and  her  husband  brought 
all  their  children,  down  to  the  babe  of  seven 
months.  Naomi  danced  a  reel  of  eight  with 
William  Byjam,  and  a  Betty  Martin  with  old  Mr. 
Greenpiece  himself.  She  could  not  mope  on 
Budsey's  wedding  day,  even  when  she  saw  Mr. 
Tibbald  meandering  alone  in  the  porch  with  his 
sad,  roving  eye.  But  was  it  quite  so  sad  and  rov 
ing  in  these  days?  or  did  Time  drop  his  honey 
balm  even  into  the  wounds  of  true  lovers  ? 

In  spite  of  Naomi's  dark  deservings,  the  winter 
began  to  brighten  all  about  her.  Budsey  and 
Cass  went  away  to  Albany  on  their  wedding  trip, 
and  were  gone  for  two  weeks.  When  they  came 


226  The  Little  Innocent 

back,  Mrs.  Darby  had  a  great  dancing  party  for 
them  at  the  tollgate.  Mrs.  Lucy,  not  to  be  out 
done,  hired  the  Temples'  large  barn  for  another. 
The  By  jams  gave  a  monstrous  musical  party. 
Naomi,  though  not  a  belle,  was  a  considered  per 
son  at  all  these  doings.  She  was  never  left  to 
sit  out  more  than  three  dances  in  succession. 

After  all  her  sorrowful  autumn  nights,  this 
winter  was  the  shortest  she  had  ever  known.  It 
burst  into  a  fine  early  spring.  Hepaticas  were 
out  in  March,  and  adder-tongues  in  early  April. 
The  green  film  spread  in  a  week's  time  halfway 
up  Bald  Mountain,  from  the  blackberry  thickets 
at  the  foot  to  the  fern-overgrown  landslide. 

Naomi  was  planting  lettuce  and  radishes  one 
afternoon,  on  a  slope  overlooking  the  tiny  green- 
specked  gardens  of  Westminster,  when  a  word 
less  melody  began  running  in  her  head  and  de 
manding  a  garment  of  poetry.  She  was  accus 
tomed  to  these  wild-goose  chases  on  which  her 
mind  would  run  off  in  spite  of  her,  interrupting 


The  Little  Innocent  227 

all  her  good  practical  work.  She  was  spilling 
the  lettuce  seed  into  the  radish  row  while  the 
melody  poked  about  in  her  brain  for  its  lines  and 
verses,  and  a  delicious,  faint,  burning  smell  rose 
up  from  the  bonfires  of  Westminster. 

"Here — here!  What  be  I  doing?  I've  for 
got  which  bag  is  radishes  and  which  is  sallet. 

"I  see  the  smoke  rise  up  to  Heaven 
Across  Jamaica  valley 

Tut,  tut!  I'm  out  here  to  plant  this  sauce- 
gardin,  not  to  be  cappin'  verses.  What  would 
Budsey  think  of  me?  But  if  I  could  just  think  of 
a  rhyme  for  'heaven'  and  another  for  Valley' 

"I  see  the  smoky  steeples  rise 

Along  Jamaica  valley: 
I  hear  the  cow-bells  down  the  pike, 
Co'  boss,  Whitefoot  and  Sally." 

It  was  while  she  sat,  with  half-shut  eyes,  on  the 
damp  earth,  composing  this  beautiful  lyric,  that 
a  small  boy  on  horseback  came  plodding  up  the 
mountain.  He  was  white  round  the  lips  and  nose 
with  fatigue,  with  fear,  and  with  strangeness.  He 


228  The  Little  Innocent 

had  never  ridden  this  road  before.  He  did  not 
look  more  than  eleven  years  old.  When  he  saw 
the  woman  in  the  clean  calico  sitting  under  the 
bush,  he  dismounted,  and  tied  his  horse  to  one  of 
the  poplars. 

"Doos  my  uncle  Saul  Polke  live  here?"  he 
asked. 

"Yis,  this  is  his  haouse,  the  sightliest  place  in 
taown.  But  he's  away,  and  your  aunt  Cass  too, 
over  the  mount'in.  And  your  great-aunt  Harm's 
gone  to  the  tollgate.  Whose  child  be  you,  little 
man  ?  If  Saul  Polke's  your  uncle,  I  must  be  your 
aunt  Naomye.  Air  you  Josiph's  child?  You 
hain't  Charles's,  for  he's  in  the  West." 

"I'm  Frederick  Dukes's  son — my  name's  Sim. 
Oh,  what  a  ride  I've  had !  I  was  lost  and  astray 
a-many  times.  I  guess  you're  the  one  my 
mother's  bellering  after.  She's  so  sick,  in  such 
pain  as  I  never  saw  her  before.  The  horse  kicked 
her  in  the  head,  father's  new  spavined  one,  that 
he  was  goin'  to  trade  in  Tempe  this  very  day ;  it 


The  Little  Innocent  229 

kicked  her  over  the  ear,  and  made  her  crazy  for  a 
spell.  I'm  all  sore  with  ridin'  so  fur — oh,  haow 
my  legs  do  ache !"  He  began  to  cry  with  hunger, 
fatigue,  and  strangeness,  despite  his  evident 
efforts  to  be  manly. 

Naomi  fed  and  rested  her  nephew,  while  she 
gave  orders  to  the  new,  green  hired  man,  and  left 
messages  for  Marm  and  Budsey.  Then  she 
mounted  the  rawboned  horse  her  young  escort 
had  ridden,  and  clasped  him  round  the  waist,  with 
rather  a  faint  heart.  For  such  a  fearless  tomboy 
child,  Naomi  had  grown  into  a  somewhat  timid 
woman,  as  her  old-maidhood  told  on  her,  bit  by 
bit,  year  by  year.  She  clung  to  the  little  boy  as 
darkness  came  on  and  the  woods  looked  so  il- 
limitably  black. 

"This  horse  has  got  a  shoe  loose,  little  nevew, 
I  feel  sure,"  she  kept  crying,  and  what  with  her 
clinging  and  her  fears,  she  made  the  little  boy 
very  manly  and  almost  a  braggart.  Showing 
weakness  oneself  is  the  best  way  in  the  world  to 


230  The  Little  Innocent 

bolster  up  the  coward  heart.  Aunt  and  nephew 
were  very  good  friends  indeed  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  poor  unpainted  house,  on  the  out 
skirts  of  Westminster,  where  Eliza  dwelt. 

In  the  kitchen  bedroom,  on  a  battered  bedstead, 
lay  the  careworn  woman  who  had  once  been  the 
delicate,  spoilt  Eliza.  Her  eyes  rested  on  Naomi 
without  recognising  her.  Her  head  was  bound 
with  wet  cloths,  and  the  room,  with  its  closed 
window,  smelt  of  vinegar.  The  scared,  neglected 
children  peered  in  the  door  and  scurried  away 
when  they  saw  the  stranger.  If  some  were  bold 
enough  to  twitch  little  Sim  by  the  coat-tails,  he 
looked  round  and  rebuked  them,  and  they  fled 
away  over  the  creaking  floors  like  visionary  chil 
dren,  Naomi  thought. 

She  drew  the  bedclothes  up  smoothly,  opened 
the  window  and  let  in  the  sweet  smell  of  the  damp 
maple  bark,  brought  water  from  the  cistern  and 
washed  Eliza's  face  and  hands,  and  braided  her 
hair.  Eliza  lifted  herself  and  gazed  at  her  sister 


The  Little  Innocent  231 

with  puzzled  looks.  At  length  she  recognised 
Naomi,  and  weakly  laughed  with  pleasure  to 
think  she  had  come.  "Wai,  Naomye,  here  you  be 
— you've  come,  hain't  you?"  was  all  she  could  say 
for  some  time.  Naomi  held  her  hand,  and  tried 
not  to  look  sorry  or  sad.  After  a  considerable 
time,  Eliza  with  an  effort  began : 

"Naomye,  I  had  little  Sim — had  him  go  after 
you,  to  ask  you  something.  .  .  .  It's  a  great  deal 
for  one  sister  to  ask  of  another,  but  you've  got 
such  a  good  home — so  much  to  do  with — and  you 
know  you  offered  Frederick  and  me  your  haouse 
on  the  north  pike  that  father  left  ye " 

"And  you  can  have  it  now,  Elizy,  whenever 
you're  ready  to  move  in " 

"No — no — it  hain't  the  house.  What  was  I 
saying?  I've  forgot  it,  I'm  af eared.  I've  for 
got  it,  after  all,  Naomye !"  she  ended  plaintively. 

"I  promise  I  will  do  it,  whatever  'tis  you  want 
of  me,  Elizy." 

"When  I'm  dead  and  gone,  sister." 


232  The  Little  Innocent 

"Oh,  no,  sister !  when  you're  alive  and  well." 

"Wai,  but  what  is  it  I  want  you  should 
do?" 

"Rest  you  a  minute:  you'll  think  of  it.  Here 
we  be  together;  everything's  all  right.  I'll  see  to 
the  house  and  the  childern;  was  that  what  you 
wanted  to  say?" 

"No, it  wan't  .  .  .  that.  What  .  .  .  was  it?" 
asked  Eliza  dreamily. 

"Never  you  mind  what  'twas,  poor  darling! 
Can  you  git  a  little  sleep,  do  you  think?  You'll 
be  the  better  for  it." 

"I  can't  think  what  'tis  I  wanted  to  say!" 

"Never  mind,  then." 

"Oh,  I  can't  think— I  can't  .  .  .  tell  ye!" 

"Wai,  wal,  my  dear,  go  to  sleep,  then;  by  and 
by  you'll  remember  it." 

"By  and  by,"  repeated  Eliza  contentedly,  shut 
ting  her  eyes.  Next  moment  a  faint  scream  was 
heard  outside,  and  a  strange  little  wizened 
creature  ran  into  the  room  and  made  for  its 


The  Little  Innocent  233 

mother.  Eliza  raised  herself;  a  look  of  beauty 
came  over  her  face;  she  opened  her  arms  to  the 
little  one. 

Naomi  thought  she  comprehended  then  what  it 
was  that  Eliza  wanted  of  her.  She  touched  her 
sister's  coarse  sleeve. 

"Little  Alferd  '11  come  to  his  aunt  Naomye," 
she  said  cheerfully.  "Come,  little  Alferd." 

The  child  clung  to  Eliza,  but  Naomi  gently 
pulled  him  free,  and  took  him  on  her  own  lap. 
Holding  him  close,  she  said : 

"Elizy,  look  at  me.     What  do  you  see?" 

"I  see  my  sister  Naomye,  with  Alferd  in  her 
lap." 

"You  do  so,  Elizy.  Now  tell  me  what  you 
hear. — Little  Alferd,  I  crave  to  have  you  for  my 
own  child.  I'll  keep  you,  and  purtect  you,  and 
try  to  make  you  a  good  child  and  a  happy  one, 
as  long  as  I  live.  Did  you  hear,  Elizy  ?" 

"I  beared  my  sister  Naomye — I  beared  her 
say — I  beared  her  promise  to  love  and  keep  my 


234  The  Little  Innocent 

little  Alferd,  so  I  guess  .  .  .  guess  I  needn't  try 
any  more  to  think  what  I  was  goin'  to  say  .  .  . 
Naomye  has  said  it  for  me." 

"Go  to  sleep  and  rest  you,  then,  Elizy.  It's 
dark  outdoors;  you're  sleepy.  The  crickets  make 
you  sleepy  with  their  singin'.  I'll  see  to  all  the 
childern.  Come,  little  Alferd;  your  mother's  all 
drowsy  and  quiet;  her  pillow's  cool;  she's  going 
to  take  a  long  rest.  Sweet  dreams,  Elizy!" 

Her  words  made  Eliza  drowsy,  for  her  mind 
was  in  that  weakened  hypnotic  state  when  sug 
gestion  acts  upon  it  easily.  What  sweet  dreams 
she  had  in  this  her  last  sleep !  for  she  smiled  again 
and  again,  almost  as  if  she  heard  the  "pretty 
gallops"  at  that  husking  long  ago,  when  she  had 
first  met  her  husband.  When  Frederick  Dukes 
came  home  with  the  doctor,  his  wife  was  scarcely 
breathing.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  breast,  and  she  had  only  one 
more  journey  to  take  over  the  rough  roads  of  the 
Green  Mountains. 


The  Little  Innocent  235 

When  the  small  funeral,  to  which  Saul  and 
Cass  came  down,  was  over,  Frederick  Dukes  took 
his  orphans  back  to  his  old  parents  in  Charlotte 
County — all  but  little  Alfred.  The  innocent 
went  by  stage,  with  his  aunt  Naomi,  up  Bald 
Mountain.  His  thin,  triangular  face,  blinking 
pink  eyes,  his  old,  shrewd,  and  yet  simple  look, 
his  bursts  of  rapid  babble,  interspersed  with 
actual  words — in  short,  the  whole  maimed  and 
lacking  personality  of  the  child — appealed  deeply 
to  the  primeval  woman  in  Naomi.  His  perfect 
helplessness,  so  pitiable  to  see,  made  her  exult  to 
think  that  he  was  all  her  own — hers  and  hers 
only. 

"Here  we  be — I'll  lift  him  down,  thanky,  Mr. 
Byjam,"  said  Naomi  as  the  stage  stopped  in  front 
of  the  poplars.  It  was  not  until  this  moment, 
when  Cass  looked  out  of  the  window,  that  any 
fear  as  to  the  child's  welcome  crossed  her  mind. 

"Is  this  Elizy's  innocent  child,  Naomye?" 
asked  Cass  as  she  opened  the  door ;  and  it  seemed 


236  The  Little  Innocent 

to  Naomi  that  she  felt  a  cold  wind  blow  out  from 
her  brother's  house. 

"Yes,  this  is  little  Alferd." 

Cass  shuddered  a  little. 

"You  don't  intend  to  keep  him  here  but  a  few 
days,  I  p'sume,  until  his  father  gets  settled  and 
comes' for  him?" 

"Why,  yes,  Cass — I  did — I  do — I  promised 
Elizy  I'd  keep  the  child." 

The  shadow  deepened  on  Mrs.  Budsey's  fair 
long  face.  Her  apple-blossom  cheeks  turned 
pinker. 

"Wai  .  .  .  bring  him  in." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  shortly  to 
her  sister-in-law;  and  Naomi  shrank  a  little,  and 
said  to  herself,  "Budsey's  honeymoon  is  over." 
She  did  not  realise  yet  what  she  had  done,  in 
darkening  Cass's  bright  bridal  house. 

They  all  went  in  together.  Marm  was  sitting 
on  the  tipping  settle  behind  the  table.  When 
she  saw  Alfred,  she  first  started,  and  then  winked, 


The  Little  Innocent  237 

and  shook  her  head,  and  nodded  hard  at  Naomi, 
pointing  with  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder  to 
ward  Cass.  But  Naomi  did  not  see.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Budsey,  while  she  took  off,  with 
trembling  fingers,  Alfred's  rusty  coat  and  ante 
diluvian  hood.  The  child  stood  displayed  in  all 
his  blankness  and  poverty  of  look,  before  his 
elders. 

Budsey  crossed  to  his  wife's  side,  and  pulled 
her  shawl  up  round  her  shoulders.  He  looked 
very  much  perplexed;  and  as  Naomi  beheld  that 
troubled  frown,  all  the  tendernesses  of  twenty-five 
years  flowed  over  her  heart,  and  entirely  engulfed 
her  new  affection.  Should  she  make  Budsey 
trouble? — then  she  saw  that  she  herself  had  ended 
his  honeymoon. 

"Brother,  I'll  go  down  to  Mr.  Martin  Paoun- 
cet's  to-morrow  forenoon,  and  hire  us  a  room 
over  his  shop,"  she  said  in  a  voice  full  of  tears. 
"I  can  afford  that,  I  guess." 

"Foolishness,  Naomye." 


238  The  Little  Innocent 

"I'm  very  sorry  I  fetched  up  little  Alfred — I 
didn't  think " 

"Foolishness,  I  tell  ye !" 

Budsey's  "foolishness"  was  the  most  comfort 
ing  word  ever  spoken,  Naomi  thought. 

"Put  the  little  toad  to  bed,  sister,  and  then 
we'll  talk  it  over,"  said  Budsey.  "You  see,  Na- 

omye — you  see "  Something  in  his  tone 

made  Naomi  look  at  her  sister-in-law.  Was  Cass 
very  tired  ?  or  why  did  she  lean  on  Budsey's  arm, 
and  give  that  little,  childish  sigh  ? 

Marm  gave  Naomi's  sleeve  a  sharp  pull,  and 
whispered : 

"You're  ash  blind  ash  a  bat,  Naomye  Polke! 
Wai,  you  needn't  to  cry  about  it.  We'll  take  the 
little  toad,  you  and  I  will,  up  to  your  haoush,  that 
your  father  left  you,  on  the  north  turnpike,  and 
thar  we'll  live  together,  the  three  of  ush." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

flfcornfng,  Bfternoon,  an&  Bvening  at  tbe  t>ou0e  on 
tbe  Hortb  Curnptfte 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?    Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


,  little  Alf,  the  Paouncet  boys  and  girls 
all  ploddin'  away  to  school.  There's  Mat 
thew  drawin'  little  Marthy  in  her  wagon  —  away 
they  all  go,  to  say  their  lessons  —  and  doosn't  Alfy 
want  to  say  his  lessons  too?" 

Naomi  sat  on  the  doorstep  of  her  saltbox  house 
on  the  north  turnpike.  She  had  her  young 
nephew  in  her  lap.  Three  years  had  not  changed 
the  little  boy  much,  though  he  stood  several  inches 
taller  in  his  quaint  homemade  pantaloons.  His 
face  was  still  a  bluish,  leaden  colour.  He  still 

babbled  many  more  words  than  he  spoke  plainly. 
239 


240  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

But  there  was  a  sort  of  background  in  his  pale 
shallow  eyes  of  late,  as  if  some  brighter  light 
were  shining  into  them. 

"Pictures,  Alfey.  See  the  pictures,"  his  aunt 
went  on.  "Doosn't  Alfey  want  to  read  what  it 
says  with  the  pictures?"  She  showed  a  print  of 
little  Samuel,  in  a  well-starched  Colonial  night 
gown. 

Alfred  began  to  pull  at  his  dickey,  with  a  ques 
tioning  look. 

"No,  no,  Alfey!  Keep  on  your  dickey  and 
pinafore.  It  hain't  bedtime,  though  little 
Samuel's  got  his  nightgown  on.  Aunt  wants  you 
should  larn  your  letters.  Look,  here  they  be. 
A,  B,  C.  You  larned  those  three  yesterday. 
Don't  you  recollect  'emr" 

Babble,  babble,  babble. 

"A,  little  man.  Say  A.  Look  at  aunt's 
mouth.  A." 

The  little  man  laid  a  finger  on  his  aunt's  tongue 
and  said  "Pill." 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   241 

"No,  Alferd.  Aunt's  very  well,  needs  no  pills. 
Open  your  own  mouth.  Now !  say  A." 

The  steady  light  pouring  from  those  patient, 
warm  grey  eyes  into  Alfred's  poor  pale  ones, 
seemed  at  length  to  kindle  a  spark  there,  and  he 
cried  suddenly: 

"A!" 

"Good !  Good  boy.  He  shall  have  a  string  of 
spools  to  play  with.  Now  here's  A  on  the  paper. 
Look  at  it  well.  You  write  A  now  for  Aunt. 
Good !  Now  B  .  .  .  Now  C." 

How  drawn  and  studious  was  Alfred's  face,  as 
with  his  tongue  hanging  out,  and  his  hollow 
cheeks  sucked  in,  he  scrawled  his  three  letters  on 
the  paper ! 

Naomi  smiled  a  bright  smile  of  triumph. 

"There!  He's  recomembered  his  hull  week's 
lesson !  Now  I'll  teach  him  D,  if  it  takes  me  an 
hour." 

She  began  again  patiently. 

"D,  little  Alferd.     A,  B,  C,  D.     Look  at  aunt's 


242  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

mouth,  see  how  she  pushes  her  tongue  against  her 
teeth.  DID!" 

"Tea!  Tea!"  cried  Alfred,  hopping  up  and 
down. 

"Oh,  no,  Alfey,  it  hain't  tea  time.  Here! 
where's  the  child  gone  ?  Alfey!  Alfey!"  She  ran 
after  him,  where  his  whitish  mane  bobbed  among 
the  willows  in  the  waste  meadows  of  the  glebe 
land.  She  was  fleet  and  well-winded,  but  she 
could  not  catch  her  little  wild  boy.  As  she  called 
"Alf!  Alf!"  it  sounded  like  "Elf!  Elf!"  and  he 
darted  like  an  elf,  or  a  firefly,  in  and  out  of  the 
orange  willows  and  berry  thickets  of  the  glebe. 

"I  wun't  be  discouraged,"  said  Naomi  to  her 
self,  but  winking  back  a  few  tears.  "He's  larned 
three  letters,  and  he  knows  part  of  his  'Now  I 
lay  me.'  How  hard  I  worked  to  teach  him  that ! 
But  I've  never  slapped  his  hands,  though  I  eena- 
most  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  when  he  stole 
that  hen  of  Mrs.  By  jam's." 

She  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down  with  her 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike  243 

sewing.  Her  face  had  grown  longer  and  thinner 
in  these  years.  The  freckles  were  fading  away 
from  her  cheeks,  where  the  delicate  hollows  had 
deepened.  These  three  years  had  been  full  of 
pleasant  and  not  unrewarded  toil,  which  yet  left 
her  with  some  odds  and  ends  of  longing  unful 
filled.  Sometimes  she  had  a  foolish  craving  to 
snatch  back  her  disappearing  youth ;  and  then  she 
called  herself  peevish,  and  drank  a  cup  of  bitter 
boneset,  or  weeded  in  her  sauce-garden,  to  "sun 
and  sweeten"  herself. 

But  she  could  not  read  poetry  any  more.  It 
was  too  poignant,  and  made  her  more  wakeful 
than  the  moonlight  had  used  to  do.  "Those 
pretty  ballads  belong  to  the  young,"  said  Naomi, 
not  knowing  that  when  her  youth  was  really  past, 
these  cravings  and  longings  would  be  all  at  rest. 
She  did  not  know  how  youthful  a  quality  it  is 
which  makes  music  and  poetry  too  sharply  sweet. 

She  was  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  thought 
herself  a  middle-aged  woman.  All  her  former 


244  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

playmates  were  long  since  married.  Isabella  By- 
jam  and  Fanny  Pouncet  were  not  only  married, 
but  wore  caps,  which  indeed  became  them  very 
well.  They  had  their  babies,  and  so  had  Debbe 
Darby,  who  had  married  the  fat  Mace.  Mr.  Tib- 
bald  had  begun,  some  time  before,  a  cautious 
courtship  of  a  widow  in  Westminster.  Naomi 
had  always  thought  that  such  news  as  this  would 
make  her  very  glad ;  but  she  was  ashamed  to  find, 
on  hearing  of  it,  that  she  felt  lonely  and  a  little 
forlorn. 

"I  must  get  over  this,"  she  said  to  herself.  "It 
hain't  reasonable  in  me.  It's  a  good  thing  for 
Henry  Tibbald  that  he  can  be  consoled.  I'm  sur 
prised  to  feel  as  I  do,  and  yet  it  hain't  the  first 
time  I've  found  myself  a  different  woman  from 
what  I  thought  I  was." 

It  was  not  the  first,  nor  was  it  to  be  the  last 
time. 

But  now  as  she  sat  over  her  sewing,  Naomi  be 
gan  to  philosophise  about  her  little  boy. 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   245 

"He's  like  one  of  the  shad  trees  father  used  to 
fetch  home  from  the  Red  Woods,  and  try  to  graft 
a  branch  of  gardin  plums  on  it.  I'm  very  like 
father,  in  more  ways  than  one,  I  find  as  I  grow 
older.  Father  used  to  talk  to  himself,  and  we 
childern  thought  haow  curious  it  was;  and  now 
here  I  be  talking  to  myself,  and  sewin'  in  poor 
little  Alfey's  sleeve  wrong  side  foremost.  There's 
nobody  to  say  to  me  'Come  down  out  of  the 
clouds,  Naomye!'  since  poor  Marm  was  taken." 

She  turned  her  chair  so  that  she  could  see  a 
sagging  slate  headstone  under  a  lilac  bush  at  the 
foot  of  her  small  orchard. 

"Harm's  earned  a  pleasant  rest  and  sleep. 
Doos  she  dream,  I  wonder,  or  is  she  alive  again 
in  some  of  the  stars,  p'haps  ? — I  think  more  likely 
she's  here  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  in  some  far 
country.  This  doctrine  of  angels  flying  along 
gold  and  silver  streets  doosn't  seem  natural,  and  I 
never  could  get  to  believe  it.  Wherever  Marm 
is,  I  wish  I  could  have  a  little  short  talk  with  her. 


246  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

I  wish  I  could  say,  'I  wasn't  very  mindful  of  you, 
Marm,  when  you  was  here,  but  I  think  about  it 
considerable  in  these  days.' 

"I  recomember  when  Deb  Darby  first  had  a 
husk-dolly  with  teeth,  haow  I  cried,  and  Marm 
laid  down  her  bunnit  that  she  was  trimmin',  and 
set  some  barley  kernils  into  my  husk-dolly's 
maouth.  ...  If  she  was  here  now,  I'd  thank 
her  for  that,  and  a  few  other  things  she  did  for 
Budsey  and  Elizy  and  me,  I  guess  .  .  .  but  it's 
too  late  now,  Marm  Patridge ! 

"Why,  what's  Alfey  going  into  the  shed  for? 
He's  got  hold  of  the  hoe — he's  carryin'  it  aout  to 
the  cistern !  He's  got  a  string,  and  tied  it  to  the 
handle.  Oh!  oh!  I  believe — I  believe  he's  try 
ing  to  fish !" 

Naomi  sprang  up,  dropping  all  her  spools  on 
the  floor. 

"He's  trying  to  fish !  He's  trying  to  fish !  His 
mind's  beginning  to  wake  up!  He's  laming 
from  the  other  boys  he  sees  a-fishing  in  the 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   247 

Branch.  Oh,  my  dear  little  Alferd,  I'll  take  you 
down  the  Branch,  in  your  uncle  Budsey's  west 
meadow,  this  very  afternoon !" 

At  about  two  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mrs.  Bud- 
sey  Polke,  going  out  in  bonnet  and  mitts  to  pay 
ceremonious  visits,  met  Mrs.  Naomi  and  Alfred 
walking  southward  from  their  saltbox  house. 
Alfred  carried  a  willow  pole,  with  a  cotton  cord 
fastened  into  the  end  of  it  with  a  staple,  in  one 
hand;  and  in  the  other  a  box  of  buttercup  heads. 
Mrs.  Naomi  wore  her  short  calico  and  stogiest 
boots,  for  the  west  meadow  was  rich  and  boggy. 

"Where  you  off  to,  sister  Naomye?"  asked 
Mrs.  Budsey.  Cassandra  had  matured  into  a 
very  handsome  woman.  Her  long  apple-blossom 
face,  sweet  smiling  mouth,  dark  eyes,  and  glossy 
hair  curtained  over  her  ears,  were  all  in  the  prime 
of  their  beauty.  She  was,  as  usual,  tagged  afar 
off  by  a  spindling  child  of  three,  her  little  Jess, 
whose  shock  of  dark  straight  hair,  long  spine,  and 
slender  legs,  were  the  exact  copy  of  Cassandra 


248  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

in  the  days  when  she  had  slept  in  the  sap-kettle. 
Naomi  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  little  Jess. 
Not  all  because  she  was  Budsey's  eldest,  nor  all 
because  she  was  a  clean,  clever  child;  but  chiefly 
because  she  was  little  and  childish  enough  to  play 
with  poor  Alfey.  So  many  times  had  Naomi 
stood  by  the  window  watching  her  poor  darling 
hovering  like  a  gnome  on  the  edge  of  the  other 
children's  games — hovering,  and  trying  to  un 
derstand  ! 

"Where  air  you  going,  Naomye?"  repeated  her 
sister-in-law. 

"Why,  Cass,  what  do  you  think?  Alfey  wants 
to  go  fishin' !  I  catched  him  this  forenoon  tyin' 
a  string  to  the  hoe,  and  anglin'  after  minnies  in 
the  cistern!  What  do  you  think  of  that,  hey?" 

"Why,  that's  very  encouraging  to  ye,  hain't  it? 
Where  you  goin' — down  the  west  meadow,  where 
his  uncle  Budsey  can  keep  an  eye  on  him?" 

"That's  where  we've  set  out  for.  Oh,  Cass, 
think  of  Alfey  fishin'  like  other  boys !"  cried  Na- 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   249 

omi,  her  bosom  swelling.     "But  I  shall  have  him 

use  these 'buttercups  and  squash-blossoms  for  bait 

— I  wouldn't  have  him  stick  a  pin  through  a  live 

worm  for  any  sakes." 

"Traouts  wun't  bite  at  a  buttercup,  Naomye!" 
"I  don't  see  why  they  wun't.    A  yallow  flower 

makes  a  very  bright  spot  in  the  water." 

"Why,    Naomye,   you'll   only   make  the   child 

ridiculous,  laming  him  to  fish  with  a  buttercup 

and  a  squash-blossom!" 

"Wai — he  better  be  ridiculous,  than  to  harden 

his  heart." 

"You're  a  curious  creature,  Naomye." 

"I  guess  I  be,  and  I  don't  know  as  I  care,"  cried 

Naomi,  with  a  wave  of  very  warm  colour  in  her 

cheeks.     "I  hain't  going  to  bring  up  my  little  boy 

to   hurt   and   maim  every  little  creeter  he   can 

catch !" 

"Wai,  wal,  sister!     Please  yourself!" 

Budsey  was  hilling  corn  in  his  large  westward 

field.     He  looked  down  the  daisied  meadow  and 


250  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

saw  Naomi,  in  her  old  short  green  calico  and 
brown  sunbonnet,  wandering  along  the  stream 
with  little  Alfred.  She  was  baiting  his  pinhook 
with  a  yellow  flower,  and  throwing  it  out  into  the 
rapids  of  the  tiny  stream. 

Budsey  called  across  the  corn  to  his  Irish  farm 
hand: 

"Hi,  John  Michaelfergus !  look  here!" 
The  other  ceased  hoeing,  and  came  where  he 
too  could  see  the  fishers. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  John?" 
The  farmhand  looked  in  silence.  His  well- 
tanned  face  quivered  a  little,  but  he  did  not  quite 
laugh.  He  leaned  on  his  hoe  and  considered  the 
pair.  Naomi's  white  ankles  twinkled  along  the 
stream,  but  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Hi,  John !  The  little  feller's  got  one !"  cried 
Budsey,  slapping  the  Irishman's  shoulder.  "Look 
at  him!  See  him  jump!  It's  all  he  can  do  to 
keep  inside  of  his  skin!  That's  the  first  traout 
he  ever  catched — woman  alive,  what  is  my  sister 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike    251 

doing?  Did  you  see  that,  John?  She  took  that 
traout  and  throwed  it  back  in  the  water!" 

"Sure  I  saw,"  replied  the  farmhand  slowly. 
A  small  smile  played  round  his  excellent  mouth, 
but  his  eyes  were  soft  and  grave.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  his  work.  He  leaned  on  his  hoe, 
watching  Mrs.  Naomi's  white  ankles  and  blowing 
green  skirts. 

"My  sister  Naomye  was  always  one  of  that 
kind,"  continued  Budsey.  "She'd  let  the  mice 
aout  of  the  tail-trap  if  Marm  didn't  watch  her. 
Once  she  tipped  a  hull  bottle  of  my  bait  over  into 
the  grass,  and  when  I  gathered  'em  all  up  again, 
she  'most  had  a  tantrum  over  it." 

The  farmhand  looked  in  silence  at  the  merciful 
lady  and  her  innocent  boy;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  they  were  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  the  little 
"Good  People"  of  Ireland. 

"John  Michaelfergus  is  very  silent  of  late," 
mused  Budsey.  "I  hain't  knowed  him  to  be  so 
silent  and  serious  since  his  first  Sunday  in  Bear- 


252  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

taown,  when  I  catched  him  crying  for  his  old 
country.  Perhaps  he  thinks  more  of  his  empty 
pockets  now  than  he  did  at  that  time.  I  recollect 
how  he  danced  all  night  at  little  Jess's  christenin', 
when  he  had  a  year  and  seven  months  left  to 
work  off  the  price  of  his  voyage." 

Budsey's  guess  was  right.  John  Michaelfer- 
gus  was  thinking  of  his  empty  pockets,  which  had 
hung  so  light  in  his  worn  shag  coat  when  he  left 
Castlemartyr.  They  had  been  light  enough  all 
these  two  years  and  more  of  indentured  labour. 
He  could  dance  his  wonderful  reels  and  clogs  the 
better  for  their  emptiness,  he  had  always  thought. 
But  now  they  hung  like  millstones  on  each  side  of 
him. 

And  yet  he  had  forgotten  them  again  as  he 
walked  up  the  turnpike  that  evening.  He  walked 
very  well,  with  a  different  gait  from  the  men  of 
the  Green  Mountains — a  longer  and  more  spring 
ing  step.  He  was  of  a  fair  height,  but  not  tall. 
His  hair  was  black,  his  eyes  a  shining  hazel.  He 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike    253 

had  picked  up  a  squash-blossom  in  the  west 
meadow ;  it  had  no  stem,  but  he  put  it  in  the  but 
tonhole  of  his  grey  shag  coat,  with  the  help  of  a 
wisp  of  grass.  As  he  walked,  he  sang  the  lovely, 
plaintive  song  of  "Shule  Aroon," — sang  it  very 
pathetically,  because  his  heart  was  very  light. 

"I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 
I'll  sell  my  only  spinning  wheel, 
To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel- 
Is  go,  d-teidhu,  a  muirneen  slan." 

He  sang  so  heartily  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
wheels  of  Mr.  Greenpiece's  aged  buggy  behind 
him,  until  the  feeble  voice  of  Beartown's  old 
minister  called  out : 

"Which  way  you  going,  John?  Wun't  ye 
ride?" 

"Sure  I  think  Shanks's  mares  '11  carry  me,  thank 
your  river'nce." 

"Better  climb  in.  Where  air  you  bound  for  ?" 
"I  was  after  walking  a  small  piece  up  the  pike." 
"Wai,  I  set  forth  in  that  direction  too.  I  was 


254  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

a-going  up  to  see  Mrs.  Naomye  and  that  little 
boy  of  hers,  if  she  hadn't  put  him  to  bed  yet." 

"Indade." 

"Mrs.  Naomye  wants  I  should  larn  the  poor 
child  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  continued  Mr.  Green- 
piece.  "I've  been  up  there  several  times,  but  I 
can't  see  that  the  child  makes  any  progress." 

"Sure  I'm  sorry  from  my  boots  up  to  hear 
that." 

"Yes,  it's  considerable  of  a  disappointment  to 
his  auntie.  And  now  I  doubt — I  doubt  she's  got 
another  trouble  in  store,  though  most  would  look 
upon  it  as  a  blessing." 

"Trouble!  what  trouble,  your  river'nce?  what 
trouble?"  asked  the  Irishman,  taking  hold  of  the 
spokes  of  Mr.  Greenpiece's  wheel,  and  looking 
with  cloudy  eyes  at  the  minister. 

"Why,  the  poor  little  boy's  not  very  long  for 
this  world,  it  appears.  I  had  a  talk  with  the 
doctor  here  awhile  ago.  These  innocent  childern 
never  live  very  long,  he  tells  me." 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   255 

"The  gossoon  has  the  best  of  care." 

Mr.  Greenpiece  shook  his  head. 

"He's  a  blue-looking  child.  That  means  a 
weak  heart." 

The  Irishman  was  silent.  He  had  forgotten 
his  song.  He  was  wishing  that  he  could  keep  the 
wind  and  rain  away  from  the  merciful  lady. 

"I  must  peg  along,"  said  Mr.  Greenpiece. 
"Get  ap,  King  George." 

"I  can  aisily  keep  ahead  of  ould  King  George," 
said  John  Michaelfergus  to  himself. 

Naomi  had  been  putting  her  little  boy  to  bed. 
She  kept  the  candle  burning  on  the  dresser  for  a 
little  while,  for  he  was  afraid  of  the  dark,  and  she 
humoured  him  in  it.  The  moon  was  rising  over 
Bald  Mountain,  and  the  air  was  chilly  with  the 
dew. 

"What  a  curious  thing  it  is  for  a  woman  of  my 
Age,"  mused  Naomi  aloud,  "to  feel  this  light 
ness  in  my  heels  when  evening  comes  on !  I  don't 
know  what  it  signifies.  The  other  night  I  dreamt 


256  Morning,  Afternoon,  and  Evening  at 

I  was  out  in  the  woods,  and  a  circle  of  fairies 
came  up  around  me,  and  all  began  to  dance.  I 
don't  know  what  gives  me  such  dreams!  They 
grow  more  and  more  curious  every  night.  Last 
night  I  dreamt  I  had  me  a  white  dress,  with  a 
blue  sash.  At  my  Age !" 

The  moon  had  risen  above  the  Hollow.  A 
barn-owl  screeched  close  by,  and  Naomi  started 
to  Alfred's  side;  but  he  did  not  awaken. 

"Alfey's  so  fast  asleep,  I  can  blow  out  his 
candle  now,  I  guess,"  whispered  Naomi.  "Oh! 
....  Somebody  ...  is  coming  in  across  my 
sauce-gardin.  It  hain't  Mr.  Greenpiece  walking 
so  fast  and  so  fur.  But  I  wan't  expecting — Oh ! 
little  Alfey,  I've  got  on  this  old  green  calico,  and 
somebody  ...  is  coming  to  visit  me " 

When  Mr.  Greenpiece,  a  little  while  later, 
knocked  on  the  door  of  the  saltbox  house,  no  one 
answered  him.  The  ginger-coloured  cat  peered 
round  the  corner  of  the  portico,  and  Alfey's  pet 
lamb  bleated.  Mr.  Greenpiece  strained  his  feeble 


The  House  on  the  North  Turnpike   257 

eyes  to  see  up  and  down  the  turnpike,  but  he  did 
not  think  to  look  over  toward  the  Hollow,  where 
a  short  and  stocky  lady  with  small  white  ankles 
was  walking  with  a  gentleman  in  a  long  grey 
coat.  They  walked  hand  in  hand,  like  very 
young  lovers. 


THE   END 


By      MAY      SINCLAIR 

THE    HELPMATE 
i2tno.     $1.50 

The  Literary  Digest  says  :  "  The  novels  of  May  Sin 
clair  make  waste  paper  of  most  of  the  fiction  of  a  sea 
son."  This  new  story,  the  first  written  since  "  The 
Divine  Fire,"  will  strengthen  the  author's  reputation. 
It  has  been  serialized  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  and 
The  New  York  Sun  says  of  an  early  instalment : 

"Miss  Sinclair's  new  novel,  'The  Helpmate,'  is  attracting 
much  attention.  It  is  a  miniature  painting  of  delicacy  and  skill, 
reproducing  few  characters  in  a  small  space,  with  fine  sincerity, 
— the  invalid  sister,  the  man  with  a  past,  and  the  wife  with  strict 
convictions.  The  riddle  is  to  find  which  one  of  the  women  is  the 
helpmate.  In  the  vital  situation  thus  far  developed  the  sister  is 
leading  in  the  race." 

As  the  plot  develops  the  canvas  is  filled  in  with  other 
characters  as  finely  drawn.  The  story  grips  the  reader. 
Lovers  of  good  literature  and  of  a  good  story  will  de 
light  in  its  development. 

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SUPERSEDED 

The  story  of  two  highly  contrasted  teachers  in  a  girls' 
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New  York  Sun  :  "  It  makes  one  wonder  if  in  future  years  the 
quiet  little  English  woman  may  not  be  recognized  as  a  new  Jane 
Austen." 

THE  TYSONS 

(MR.     AND    MRS.    NEVILL    TYSON) 

Chicago  Record-Herald:  "Maintains  a  clinging  grip  upon  the 
mind  and  senses,  compelling  one  to  acknowledge  the  author's 
genius." 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


Marks  an  epoch  in  contemporary  fiction." — Outlook. 


The  Poet  and  the  Parish 

By  MARY  MOSS.      121110.     $1.50 
A  story  by  one  of  America's  leading  critics 

Felix  Gwynne,  the  poet,  found  a  beautiful  and  im 
pulsive  wife,  but,  unfortunately,  a  parochial  one.  The 
author  shows  with  impartial  hand  both  the  tyrannies  of 
the  conventions  and  the  justifications  for  them.  Human 
interest  is  always  to  the  fore,  often  mellowed  with 
humor. 

The  Outlook  continues  :  "  Good  workmanship  and  entertaining 
qualities  are  happily  combined.  .  .  .  An  extraordinary  and  ad 
mirable  climax,  the  interest  never  flags.  .  .  .  The  unusual  skill 
shown  in  depicting  these  two  natures,  devoted,  yet  absolutely 
apart,  except  in  mutual  love.  There  is  no  black  and  white  in 
this  novel.  It  is  real.  Felix  is  charming,  yet  we  feel  his  distinct 
limitations.  Adelaide  is  lovely,  yet  we  cannot  ignore  her  mis 
takes.  Nina  Graeme,  the  young  actress,  and  Cousin  Emily  are 
people  it  is  a  privilege  to  know. 

The  Times  Review:  "Much  originality  .  .  .  such  cleverness 
and  original  spirit  that  whoever  begins  it  will  be  unable  to  lay  it 
down  .  .  .  rapid  movement  and  sparkling  dialogue.'1 

The  Nation :  "One  is  grateful  to  Miss  Moss  for  having  de 
picted,  in  these  days  of  drivel  about  the  artistic  temperament,  a 
poet  who,  however  morally  irresponsible,  is  by  no  means  mor 
ally  invertebrate.  ...  A  man  of  sound  nature,  whom  gross 
temptation  cannot  assail.  .  .  .  There  are  no  dull  or  meaningless 
persons  or  events,  and  a  deeper  note  seems  to  sound  beneath 
the  trebles  and  tenors  of  the  social-comedy  strain." 

Philadelphia  Press :  "  Admirably  written  book  .  .  .  abounding 
in  sparkling  epigrams  and  social  satire,  and  leading  to  a  highly 
dramatic  climax.  .  .  .  Certain  to  give  her  a  distinctive  place 
among  American  writers  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Brightly  written,  con 
tinuously  amusing  and  interesting  in  its  development  of  plot 
and  character.  Among  our  younger  novelists  no  one  seems 
quite  so  certain  of  literary  kinship  to  Jane  Austen  as  Miss  Moss. 
.  .  .  There  are  no  digressions  into  bypaths,  no  philosophizing, 
no  analytical  dissertations,  no  scenery  out-of-doors  and  no 
weather.  ...  A  book  of  men  and  women." 


Henry  Holt  and  Company 

49  W.  23d  Street  (i,  '07)  New  York 


"The  first  great  English  novel  that  has  appeared 
in  the  aoth  century."— Lewis  Melville  in  ;V.  Y.  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

Joseph  Vance 

By  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN.     4th  Printing.     $1.75. 
A  notable  novel  of  life  near  London  in  the  fifties. 

From  Mr.  Melville's  article  in  the  Times  Review:  "  It  is  epic  in 
its  conception,  magnificent  in  its  presentment.  .  .  .  'Joseph  Vance* 
is  a  book  for  laughter  and  for  tears,  and  for  smiles  mingled  with 
an  occasional  sob,  that  triumph  achieved  only  by  the  best  of  humor 
ists.  .  .  .  One  of  the  tenderest  figures  in  modern  fiction.  .  .  .  I  write 
this  before  the  appearance  of 'Alice-for-short.'  .  .  .  'Joseph  Vance,' 
in  my  opinion,  is  the  book  not  of  the  last  year,  but  of  the  last  decade  ; 
the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  '  Mr.  Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy';  a  book 
that  must  take  its  place,  by  virtue  of  its  tenderness  and  pathos,  its  wit 
and  humor,  its  love  of  human  kind,  and  its  virile  characterization,  as 
the  first  great  English  novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  cen 
tury." 


Alice-for-short 

By  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN.    4th  Printing.     $1.75. 

The  experiences,  some  of  them  decidedly  dramatic,  of  a 
London  waif,  the  artist  who  was  kind  to  her,  and  of  his  family 
and  friends. 

Dial:  "'Joseph  Vance'  was  far  and  away  the  best  novel  of  the 
year,  and  of  many  years.  .  .  .  Mr.  De  Morgan's  second  novel  proves 
to  be  no  less  remarkable,  and  equally  productive  of  almost  unalloyed 
delight.  .  .  .  The  reader  is  hereby  warned  that  if  he  skims  '  Alice-for- 
short  '  it  will  be  to  his  own  serious  loss.  The  cream  reaches  to  the 
dregs.  ...  A  story  of  extraordinary  interest.  ...  A  remarkable  ex 
ample  of  the  art  of  fiction  at  its  noblest." 

N.  Y.  Times  Review  :  "  He  is  no  more  afraid  to  set  down  the  little 
language  of  lovers  and  children  and  mothers  than  he  is  to  deal  with 
murder  or  suicide  or  ghosts.  .  .  .  These  two  novels  of  his  seem  to  us 
to  prove  not  only  that  the  English  novel  is  not  dead,  but  that  it  is 
safe  to  develop  on  the  lines  laid  down  by  the  old  masters." 

Henry     Holt     and     Company 

Publishers  (vi,   '07)  New  York 


The  vivid  story  of  war.  .  .  .  Uncommonly  entertain 
ing. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

AS    THE    HAGUE    ORDAINS 

Journal  of  a  Russian  Officer's  Wife  in  Japan 

Illustrated  from  photographs,     ad  printing.     $1.50  net ; 
by  mail,  $1.62 

A  book  which  has  the  interest  of  an  "  inside  history" 
of  the  late  war.  More  appealing  even  than  the  history, 
is  the  detailed  picture  drawn  by  a  bright,  observing, 
fearless  woman  of  the  horrors,  the  grim  humor,  the 
pathetic  and  even  romantic  incidents  of  war.  Her 
comments  on  many  notables,  including  Roosevelt, 
Stoessel,  Gorki,  and  Tolstoi  are  as  striking  as  they  are 
fearless. 

N.  Y.  Sun:  "  Probable  enough,  if  fiction,  and  as  in 
teresting  as  any  novel,  if  fact." 

New  York  Times  Review :  "  Perhaps  no  book  has  de 
scribed  the  Russian  prisoners'  life  in  Japan  so  graphic 
ally  and  so  entertainingly.  .  .  .  Vivid  and  charming." 

N.  Y.  Commercial :  "  One  reads  from  first  to  last  with 
unflagging  interest." 

Outlook :  "  Holds  a  tremendous  human  interest.  .  .  . 
Author  writes  with  wit  and  a  delightfully  feminine 
abandon." 

Chicago  Record-Herald:  "This  surprisingly  out 
spoken  volume  .  .  .  could  have  been  written  only  by 
an  extraordinarily  able  woman  who  knew  the  inside  of 
Russian  politics  and  also  had  actual  experience  in 
Japanese  war  hospitals." 

GRAHAM  TRAVERS'  GROWTH 

By  the  author  of  "  Mona  Maclean."  2d  printing.   $1.50. 
Bookman:    "A    novel    of    contrasts,    peopled   with 
Scotch  theologs  and  fascinating  women  of  the  world." 

New  York  Times  Review :  "It  is  throbbing  with  the 
tragedies  and  comedies  of  real  men  and  women." 

Outlook:  "Has  many  unusual  qualities.  .  .  .  The 
situation  is  not  forced.  .  .  .  Well  constructed,  inter 
esting." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


Two  Notable  Romances 

In    the    Shadow    of    the    Lord 
A  Romance  of  the  Washingtons 

By  MRS.   HUGH  FRASER.     $1.50. 

New  York  Times  Review  :  "A  splendid  biography  of  a  splendid 
family." 

Boston  Transcript :  "One  has  such  a  sense  of  real  illumination  in 
reading  the  book  as  comes  from  Dr.  Mitchell's  elaborate  biography 
and  Thackeray's  slight  but  vivid  sketches  of  Washington  himself." 

Outlo'ik:  "A  good  story.  wiJi  Mary  Ball,  the  mother  of  Wash- 
inarton.  as  the  central  figure  .  .  .  well  arranged.  The  persons 
concerned  are  sufficiently  lifelike,  and  the  general  effect  is  dignified 
and  wholesome." 

Chicago  Post :  "It  does  much  to  make  the  Great  George  a  human 
being  .  .  .  human  and  likable,  yet  none  the  less  a  man  whom 
destiny  had  claimed  .  .  .  Mrs.  Fraser's  romance  trips  lightly 
along  .  .  .  for  those  who  wish  to  know  George  Washington  and 
his  family  as  human  beings  and  not  as  mere  stiff  puppets,  which  we 
may  revere  but  never  grow  fond  of,  tnis  book  wiH  be  a  boon." 

Literary  Diges*  :  "A  narrative  of  fine  human  interest.  .  .  An 
interesting  and  picturesque  document  of  American  colonial  days. 
A  fine  moral  atmosphere  pervades  the  book.  .  .  .  Full  of  interest 
for  us.  .  .  .  The  impressions  she  gives  of  this  charming  past  are 
vivid  and  informing." 

A  Romance  of  Old  Wars 

By  VALENTINA  HAWTREY.     £1.50. 

A  very  human  love  story,  centering  around  a  honey 
moon  in  the  French  camp  at  the  time  of  Philip  Van 
Artevelde's  invasion. 

The  Living  Age:  "  Granting  that  such  a  man  could  have  supposed 
himsel  f  free  to  marry,  t  he  story  ranks  among  the  best  of  the  romances 
of  its  kind.  .  .  .  The  truest  of  historians,  the  brilliantly  imaginative 
novelist.  ' 

N.  Y.  Tribune:  "The  idyllic  quality  of  the  romance.  ...  A  pic 
ture  <:fo'd  time  days,  which  is  doubtless  true  enougii  in  its  setting. 
.  .  .  In  her  treatment  of  human  passions,  which  do  not  change  with 
the  march  of  centuries,  sue  keeps  well  within  the  limits  of  credibility 
and  stood  taste." 

Rv  ftrfi-HernliJ:  "A  pathetic,  human  story  of  love  and  conflict. 
.  .  .  Stirring,  old  world  scenes  that  touch  the  heart  and  soul." 

Outlook:  "  Has  something  of  the  quality  of  a  fine  old  tapestry  . .  . 
well  written  .  .  .  an  artistic  close." 

Ph  ila^elphin  Ledger :  "  For  a  novel  of  this  semi-historical  charac 
ter  it  ranks  high.  The  contemporary  and  local  coloring  are  well 
maintained,  the  plot  and  action  are  decidedly  interesting,  and  the 
character  of  Suzanne,  the  peasant  girl,  is  remarkably  well  drawn. 
Historical  fiction  is  too  often  totally  1  icking  in  human  interest,  high- 
flown  romance  takin  ;  its  place;  but,  most  certainly,  this  cannot  be 
said  of  this  work  .  .  .  well  worth  reading." 

Henry    Holt    and   Company 

Publishers  (i,'o;)  New  York 


A  CHEERFUL  YEAR  BOOK  FOR  1908 
For  Engagements  and  other  Serious  Matters  accom 
panied  by  Philosophic  and  Moral  Aphorisms  for  the 
instruction  of  youth,  the  inspiration  of  maturity  and 
the  solace  of  age,  by  F.  M.  KNOWLES,  the  same 
being  illustrated  with  tasteful  and  illuminating  pic 
tures  by  C.  F.  LESTER,  and  the  whole  being  intro 
duced  and  concluded  with  profound  and  edifying  re 
marks  by  CAROLYN  WELLS.  i2mo.  $i  net ;  by 
mail,  $1.10. 

A  new  popular-priced  edition  for  1908  of  this  amus 
ing  and  attractive  engagement  book. 

HARPS  HUNG  UP  IN  BABYLON 
By  ARTHUR  COLTON.     i2mo.     $1.25  net ;  by  mail, 

$i.35. 

Some  forty  poems,  many  of  which  first  appeared 
in  such  magazines  as  The  Atlantic,  Century,  Scrib- 
ners' ,  Harper's,  etc.,  including  The  Captive  and 
Allah's  Tent,  verses  from  "  The  Canticle  of  the  Road" 
a  group  of  16  poems  "To  Faustina,"  and  finally  a 
group  in  lighter  vein. 

ONE  HUNDRED    GREAT  POEMS 
Selected  by  R.  J.  CROSS.    Probable  price,  $1.25  net. 

This  dainty  pocket  volume  is  a  worthy  companion  to 
Lucas's  "  The  Friendly  Town  "  and  "The  Open  Road." 

Among  the  poets  included,  with  the  number  bracketed 
after  each,  are:  Shakespeare  (n),  Jonson  (2),  Herbert 
(i),  Herrick  (2),  Milton  (4),  Gray  (i),  Burns  (2),  Words 
worth  (5),  Coleridge  (4),  Lamb  (2),  Moore  (i).  Leigh 
Hunt  (i),  Byron  (2),  Shelley  (9),  Keats  (7),  Hood  (2), 
Macaulay  (2),  Symonds  (i),  Longfellow  (2),  Tennyson 
(10),  Lord  Houghton  (i),  Mrs.  Browning  (4),  Brown 
ing  (7),  Emily  Bronte  (i),  Clough  (2),  Lowell  (i),  Chris 
tina  Rossetti  (i),  Swinburne  (3),  O'Shaughnessy  (3). 

THE   OPEN   ROAD 
THE    FRIENDLY   TOWN 

Two  little  books  compiled  by  EDWARD  VERRALL  LUCAS 
that  promise  to  become  standards.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Each 
$1.50.  Leather,  $2.50. 

"The  Open  Road"  contains  some  125  poems  of  out 
door  life  from  over  60  authors. 

"The  Friendly  Town  "  contains  over  200  selections 
in  verse  and  prose  from  100  authors. ^_^ 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


Date  Due 


PRINTED  IN   U.S.A. 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000254771    9 


